Scarlet Threads
by SpaceAnJL
Summary: *New ficlet* Today, my brain is all made up of random. And this is what happens when that is the case...
1. Take It as Read

A/N 'Ruby Tuesday', 'Green Eyes' and 'Love Will Tear Us Apart' are part of a sequence, though not formally linked. So this is going to be where I put all the scenes and ficlets that don't fit elsewhere, so that the little one-shots don't wander off and get into mischief.

.

.

.

"_You called Cho first." He's reproachful, a hint of genuine hurt in his eyes. _

"_I thought he was nearer." She lies. She's going to bust that little twerp back to traffic. He said it was handled._

"_Not on a Thursday night." he says cryptically. - 'Green Eyes' SpaceAnJL_

So what does Cho do on a Thursday?

.

.

.

Take It As Read

.

.

.

Cho always has a book on the go. He leaves them on his desk, uses the receipts as markers. And for the last three months, he's started buying almost exclusively from the same store. At least once a week. A greater incidence of literature, as opposed to just fiction. The clerk ID is almost always JenL1138.

So Jane, being Jane, and possessed of sufficient curiosity to seriously damage the health of the feline population of Sacramento, strolls into the bookstore one lunchtime, just to see.

There are two Jenny's working there. But the one on the fiction section is a small Chinese girl. She's reading covertly at the counter, pretty face serious.

He gets right up to the desk before she notices him. The book vanishes under the counter with practised speed. Though not before Jane sees the title. 'Ulysses'.

She's very pretty, and almost certainly older than she looks. Jane imagines that she gets carded in bars far too frequently. She gives him a helpful expectant smile. Jane grins back.

"I'm looking for a book. It was blue."

The smile becomes a little forced.

"Can you remember anything else about it, sir?"

"I think it had a house on the cover."

She gives him a Look. It's not quite as good as one of Lisbon's searing glares, but it has potential.

Jenny Lo hates dealing with the idiots. She suppresses a sigh. This one is very cute, but definitely a dumb blond. Or playing one for laughs.

000000000000

When Jane strolls back into the office, grinning, Cho regards him with only the usual amount of suspicion. Which increases rapidly when Jane puts his shopping bag on the table, and he sees the logo.

"The staff are so helpful there, aren't they?"

Oh no.

"I've been looking for this one book for ages. I mean, most people know about 'Moby Dick', but so few places have Melville's last novel on the shelves."

Jane can't know.

Wait. It's Jane. He knows. That wide self-satisfied smirk.

"You need to be more confident. Relaxed."

Cho hunches his shoulders, Not Listening.

"I mean, you talk to people all the time, as part of your job."

"It's not an interrogation." Way to go. Engage with the lunatic. What did Lisbon tell you about not encouraging him? No eye contact, no conversation.

"No. Though I'm sure that you could intimidate her into going for coffee if you really wanted to."

"I..." Deep breath. "I'm not talking to you about this."

He'd like to talk to her. Well, he has. If you count a few muttered words as he hands his card over. But...

"Cho, you are straight and single. Why shouldn't you fancy a pretty girl?" The way Cho twitches. Girl. That was it. "You read too much Nabokov. She's twenty-three."

"How did...you asked her. You went in and asked her, didn't you?"

Cho burns with baffled temper and embarrassment. Jane can just stroll in, charm any woman he wants...

"I didn't chat her up." Says the voice of demonic evil cheerfully. "But I told her that I had a friend..."

Oh god.

"...she remembers you. Frequent customer, buys the highbrow stuff."

She must think he's a stalker. A scary, tongue-tied, old stalker.

Cho glares. Jane holds up his hands.

"I'm just trying to help."

"This isn't High School. And I don't need help."

"Okay." He lies back down on his couch. Cho simmers miserably. He'll never be able to go back in there, now.

Jane speaks without opening his eyes.

"They're reading 'Gravity's Rainbow'."

"What?"

"The book club. Thursday evenings. She's going to save you a seat."

Cho knows when he's beaten.

Jane settles with a smile. Jenny had definitely remembered the cute Asian guy who bought the heavyweight novels. The fact that he actually read them was the clincher.

.

.

.

A/N Ex-bookseller here. The blue book conversation actually happened.

And Melville's last novel was 'The Confidence-Man'.


	2. Son of a Preacher Man

_A/N: My take on Jane's backstory. Think John Schneider._

Son of a Preacher Man.

His father was a faith healer, of sorts. Not 'carny folk'. Not quite. But it taught him an early disrespect for people's frailties, their need to believe.

He would watch the awe and wonder in the faces, as that great golden voice poured forth, promising hope and health and eternal blessing. The benevolent smile that held sweet wisdom.

But the reality was tired boarding houses, card games and cigar smoke. Leaving town ahead of lawsuits, pain and recrimination. A trail of broken hopes. He'd lived his whole life on the pain of others, never looking back. Words had a power of their own. But they couldn't draw the cancer from a body, even as they drew dollars from pockets. Those kindly eyes held a world of contempt, and Jane could hear the hollow ring behind the rhetoric. And no-one else seemed to notice, lambs following their shepherd blindly.

"Make them love you." His father's advice. "Make them need you. Make them trust."

His father had been an expert in seduction. The smile, the deep eye contact, total concentration upon the only too willing subject, the mark who would give up whatever was requested and think it was their own idea. Women were easy. But he'd seen that gentle righteous authority win over suspicious lawmen, judges, welfare officers.

He hears the same words come from his own mouth, with just that hint of ol' Southern charm that his father had perfected – fake as anything else; he'd heard so many different stories over the years, he wasn't sure his father even remembered the truth.

The way he would create a show, the time and energy to draw a crowd to him, the glow as he drank in the adulation. He was the man behind the curtain. The puppet-master. But as the girlfriends got younger, as the scotch got better, the cigars more expensive...it was still not _enough_. The dark moods and the drinking. The restlessness, the drive. That voice, gravel overtaking the molasses, talking of towns, states, in terms of the takings, the score. Everyone and everything for sale. How to reach into the secret places of a man's heart, show him his fears and sell his own dreams back to him.

Everyone has buttons. Drink, drugs, sex, pain, money, faith, fear, hope, love, trust, it's all _need. _The dumb animal faces willing to be fooled, wanting so badly for it to be true, for there to be something out there that would mean that they aren't as lonely, as pathetic, as _insignificant, _that they fear to be. That there is a kindly, benevolent force that will look after good people, and punish the bad. That there is a winning card, a pea under the cup, a light in the darkness and that the wine really does turn to blood. That someone does care, that he is really working late, that the weight will just fall off, that just one won't hurt. That words will make it all better, that magic exists, that there are fairies at the bottom of the garden, that someone has the answers.

Life is the game, and trust is the way of keeping score. Everyone is a mark, and there is nothing that you cannot buy. Sheep will queue up to have their throats cut, if you sell them the sweet fantasy of hope, life eternal, peace and flowers and loving kindness.

He walked away from that life fifteen years ago, when he buried the old man. But one thing remains with him.

Exodus 21:23 - "A life for a life, an eye for an eye"

That, he believes in.


	3. Going Up

Going Up

.

.

"Hold the elevator."

Jane obliges, but the man halts, flicker of alarm on his face, steps back with his coffee.

"I'll...uh, get the next one."

Lisbon frowns. Garner works on their floor.

"Have you been spooking people again, Jane?"

"Me? No. I think they're afraid of the scary little agent with the great big gun. I mean, are you trying to compensate for something, because it's very phal..."

Doors slide shut. Garner's co-worker Perez peers round the pillar.

"Sorry, didn't have time to high-sign."

"I nearly got in there with them." Garner shudders. The other elevator doors slide open, and there is a concerted rush from loiterers in the lobby.

Opinion is that Jane and Lisbon get on like a house on fire. And nobody wants to get burnt.


	4. Thirtyten

because men panic about certain numbers -

.

.

Thirty-Ten

.

.

It was the wince that did it. Lisbon had accused him of being a 'naughty little boy in a forty-year-old body'. And she'd caught the wince. He'd clowned about, and made them laugh, but she kept the memory, took it out to examine at leisure.

He didn't mind being thought childish. He positively revelled in it. Therefore...a moment's thought, a quick check of the records, and she smiled, a rich and wicked smile. Well, well, well.

Patrick Jane has an important birthday coming up.

So, tomorrow, when he baits her, she leans over the couch and pretends to find a grey hair.


	5. Red Running

-Something cruel and unusual that came to me.-

.

.

Red Running

.

.

"Why do I have to do this again?"

"Mandatory Fitness Requirement. You want to come out in the field, you have to pass it."

"I'm employed for my brains, not my brawn."

"Yeah, I can see that." Off the indignant look. "Look, man, it's this or go with Van Pelt. She'll make you do yoga."

"I don't need to put my foot in my ear."

"Lisbon'll put her foot in your ear if you don't pass." Cho comes near a grin. "One more circuit."

When the memo first came round, he'd thought it was a joke. Then he'd thought it might be Minelli's revenge for his taking the labels off the coffee (again). But Lisbon had stomped out of her office with a copy, and gone to complain. Not about the MFR itself, but about how his certain failure would affect the SCU in the field.

It was overhearing that, that had decided him. He's not a vain man (and he can _hear_ Lisbon's reaction to that thought in his head) but her off-hand dismissal of his ability to do anything remotely physical stung. So he'd agreed.

And then he'd read the requirements. The Mandatory Fitness Requirement for active field-work in the California Bureau of Investigation included a whole slew of timed exercises and, oh joy, a mile and a half run.

Jane wasn't sure he could actually run for a mile and a half. Especially not with some grinning Korean sadist goading him.

However, the scary thing was going to be enduring the gym with Rigsby.

No, the really scary thing was Van Pelt. The coach's kid had come off the bench with a tailored training program just for him.

And she'd given it to Lisbon. Which was sneaky and devious and...he was obviously rubbing off on her.

He was going to throw up. He used to be fit, dammit.

But he's damned if he's going to give in. Because that would mean Lisbon would be right. And that's his job.


	6. A Game of You

A Game of You

.

.

They all have their own ways of relaxing, in those odd little moments of down-time.

Cho, when he doesn't have a book, does crosswords. He is not a man of few words; he just doesn't utter many of them out loud.

Rigsby has a Rubik's cube. He likes a physical challenge, something to pit himself against. Large clever hands turn the puzzle with surprising dexterity.

Van Pelt was brought up to never be idle. She daren't bring her knitting to work, but she can't shake old guilt whenever she does a sudoku. Numbers somehow seem less frivolous than Rigsby's toy.

Jane borrows books, finishes puzzles, challenges Rigsbys's time, draws people into card tricks and mind games. Eternal showman, joker in the pack. And yet, his game is still solitaire.

Lisbon likes jigsaws. She likes to take the pieces, an ordering of chaos. To take something broken, and make it whole again.


	7. Mother Teresa

Minelli's thoughts in 'Red John's Friends'.

.

.

Mother Teresa

.

.

Shoulda seen it coming. Thought the woman was wedded to her career. Thought she'd know better than to fall for the two-bit charm of a scam artist. But I had to put him someplace. And he might be a fraud and an asshole, but he's damn useful.

Guess we all remember the last time she took a vacation. She was out of the office for a week. And he got seconded to another team.

It lasted three hours.

Nobody else can handle him. She's the only one has half a hope of controlling him. Dunno how she does it, don't want to know. Hell, I read the psych report on him. 'Trouble with male authority figures' isn't the half of it. I don't think there's any respect in him for anything. Except just maybe Lisbon.

Still feel like I've thrown her to the wolves.

And now 'Mother Teresa' has the rest of her cubs on board, too. She can't fix that crazy sonovabitch. Hard choices – do I let her bury her career, or do I find a way round? I've seen that kind of anger in cop's eyes before – he won't drop it, and god knows, we need to get that sick bastard before he starts cutting women up again.

Ah, she's remembered that there are other people in the world than her golden boy. 'Rhetorical stand' indeed. I'm so used to the agent, I forgot about that damn maternal streak. She takes the weight of him, it's going to drag her down. Though when has that ever stopped a woman?

I ever have to look down at her in a bodybag, and I'll shoot the prick myself.


	8. Flight Risk

-For Arcadya. One 'bicker-in-a-box', as requested.

.

.

Flight Risk

.

.

I hate flying. Specially those little puddlejumpers, hop between LA and Sacto. Late flights aren't so bad. Most folks settle for some brief shut-eye.

'Cept the couple across from me. Saw her first. Pretty little woman, with a cross kinda bustle to her, like the world had best pay her mind. She's trying to manage her bag into the overhead locker, near brains herself with it, before this man takes over. Face is sorta familiar, but out of LA, blond and handsome is a dime a dozen. Near everyone as even serves you a coffee has a resumé – prob'ly seen him grinning off a billboard or prancing on MTV. She lets him wrestle the bag off her, so I guess she knows him, since she don't rip him a new one. He shoves his own bag under the seat, sits beside her.

"Don't I get the window seat?"

"It's dark. There's nothing to see."

"So you won't mind if I do."

"I thought you liked the aisle seat, so you could ogle the stewardesses."

"You wrong me. I like to stretch my legs out. These seats are designed for midgets."

"I'm perfectly comfortable."

"That's what I said...ow."

He keeps bugging her, all through take-off, and she gives him an earful back. Way she snaps at him reminds me of my second wife. Woman spent her best years trying to reform me. Useta smoke my cigars round the house just to annoy her. Funny, but since she's been gone, I haven't fancied a one...

Seems they work together. She's a cop of some sort, but what the hell he is, I can't figure. Whatever it is, seems to involve being punched by a prominent citizen as didn't like his son being exposed as a cross-dressing club artiste. 'Course, it seems that the man then punched said citizen back for being a bigoted idiot. And then gave the kid the number of a show biz agent in Vegas. None of this is making the woman happy. The fact that they appear to have arrested a murderer somewhere around this is almost thrown away in the conversation. Something about embezzlement and...goats?

We hit some bad weather. Only a little bitty storm, but we're only in a little bitty plane. Ping of the seatbelt sign, and even in the low cabin-light, I can see how pale she's gone. I can see her small hand, gripping the arm-rest. And if I can see how white her knuckles are, I bet...yep. He either don't know when to keep his mouth shut, or he enjoys baiting her.

"I'll hold your hand if you're scared."

"Dammit, Jane. I've flown hundreds of times..."

"But you still don't like it. Someone else being in control."

"This has nothing to do..." Bounce of turbulence, and she shuts her mouth sharpish.

"You get airsick." He's gleeful. "The mighty Agent Lisbon has a flaw."

Shake, bang, rattle of the plane going sideways. Man has the reflexes of a cat, smooth flick of his wrist producing the bag even as she loses her lunch.

"I swear...if you tell anyone..."

"Sssh."

No woman looks her best throwing up. Amy useta get sick as hell on the water, and she hated me seeing her like that. Never bothered me, though – swearing at me took her mind off it some.

Least it might stop them bickering. He rubs her back, comforting little circles, and she heaves miserably. Gentle way he scoops back her hair says more'n anything.

"Serves you right for eating those Singapore noodles." he says, fondly.

Yep, nothing like making a woman mad at you to make her forget feeling sick and scared.

He fishes in his bag, pulls out a bottle of water. Glare as she grabs it off him could drop a man in his tracks. He takes his hand off her back, reluctant-like. But he's got a tissue for her when she's finished drinking.

"Give me your wrist. Come on."

"Not having you hypnotize me."

"It's acupressure. Make you feel better. Now don't be so damn stubborn. Wrist."

"No hypnotism?"

"Would I do that?"

Her wan little face is looking at him like she might bite, but she holds out her arm in limp defeat.

Man has a voice could charm stones to dancing. Murmurs to her, low and calm, as he moves his thumb on her arm. And in five minutes, she's flaked out.

She's gonna be mad as all hell when she wakes up. Guess he likes to live dangerously.

Amy and me, we had our fights. Some folks is made that way. 'Course, later, you get to the making up. It suited us fine for forty years. Guess it suits them, too, whatever it is they have. He tucks her against his shoulder, and closes his own eyes.

Flight levels out some. Attendants make it round, and he manages to make handing over a couple of full bags seem a prize. Little woman is still out of it. I can just see the side of his face as he looks down at her. Kinda sad and sorry and proud all at once. Reckon it might have something to do with the ring I can see on his hand, as he runs a gentle thumb down her jaw.

Well, I ain't one to go throwing stones. Amy was married to another fella when she met me, and I'd already put my own marriage in the crapper. There's nothing in what they've said could make you think they have something between them. It's all in what they ain't saying.

She comes to on the descent when he touches her hand, leaps away from him with a squeak. He regards his shoulder with a quizzical eye.

"You've drooled on me, woman."

"You hypnotized me."

"I did not." He looks up from mopping his suit with an expression that looks genuinely affronted. "I said I wouldn't."

"Then why the hell was I sleeping on you?"

"Drooling on me. You were tired from throwing up."

Reckon there's a bridge in 'Frisco for sale, too.

She glares at him. Puts colour in her cheeks, at least. He grins back.

"You might want to touch up your lipstick, you know. You look dreadful."

What with fussing with her face, and sorting her hair, she don't even notice us touching down. He does. I'm starting to think that I do know him from someplace. Mebbe a card game. Though I don't reckon you'd play him more than once. Less you had no more use for your wallet. Or possibly your soul.

He gets up, gestures politely to her. She elbows him as she goes past.

"You'll never make an air marshal, Lisbon."

"Bite me."

Reckon he'd like to, way he's looking after her.

That's how I see 'em, heading out into the night. He's carrying her bag, and she's fighting him to get it back, same feisty little creature she was to start.

I'd bet any dollars you like that he'll fetch her Singapore noodles for lunch tomorrow. And that no-one around them will ever know the why of it.


	9. Red Rapide

Red Rapide

.

.

Grace Van Pelt hurries into the bullpen.

"I'm sorry I'm late, my car wouldn't start, so I had to..."

Nobody is listening. With her car out of action, Grace has been forced to use her alternative transport. Her father's lovingly restored Vincent Rapide. Which means that Grace Van Pelt, usually so formally dressed and professional, has just hurried into the room in a full set of red and black biking leathers.

Lisbon draws her chin in, clearly startled. Cho's eyes have gone perfectly round. And Rigsby's second-breakfast sandwich drops out of his hand, unnoticed.

Jane opens one eye. Opens both eyes fast, and sits up. That's...unexpected. He looks over at Rigsby and grins. The man has gone to a Special Place somewhere.

"I'll be back in five minutes. But I have to get out of this outfit. It's too hot."

That's sort of what Rigsby is thinking. Only not quite in the same way. Or even as coherently. Cho clears his throat, grateful that blushing doesn't show, goes back to his report. Jane shakes his head. Honestly, poor fools. Van Pelt has a nice figure, truly, but what is so enthralling about that particular outfit? It's perfectly practical.

"I used to have a pair of leather jeans." Lisbon muses.

And the small part of Jane's mind not concerned with vengeance dribbles excitedly.

Oh. Right.


	10. Crimson Chargecard

The missing scene from Crimson Casanova. I mean - Jane. Cho. Shopping. Didn't anybody else go hysterical at this point?

.

.

Crimson Chargecard

.

.

He's never thought of himself as a bad dresser. He's never really thought about it at all. Clean shirt, dark pants, dark tie. What more do you need? Except maybe a jacket, and a pair of shoes you can walk in.

Apparently, you need to be dragged into the smartest menswear store in Sacramento, and terrorised by a grinning lunatic.

"I still don't see what's wrong with my clothes."

Jane tilts his head.

"Well, obviously you don't. That's why I'm taking you shopping."

Cho in turn looks at Jane's (admittedly well-cut) suit.

"Do I really want fashion advice from a guy in a vest?"

"Cho." The 'serious' face and voice. "This is for the team. Those are cop's shoes. You walk in anyplace with those on, you are going to be made in five minutes. And that jacket? You've got good shoulders. If you haven't the height, you go for strength."

Cho, a little sensitive about his lack of inches, gets a mulish look. Jane, sensing an incipient bolt, forestalls him.

"We want something that says...ladykiller. Stylish, but understated. Ah." He pounces.

It's a showman's eye which dances over the rails, picks out the costume. But it's tempered with a friend's awareness. Cho still has that shockingly tasteless watch – he rarely wears it, but he has it in his desk drawer. Grew up proud and poor, not a lot of money for luxuries. But education was important. (The love of books came from his mother, the Kipling fan.) Wild in his teens, but service life ironed that out, and he finished his education through the GI Bill. It's all about conformity, the uniform. So nothing too outré – he'll be too uncomfortable to pull that off. Being without a tie is going to be disorientating enough.

Cho can't see what makes this suit so special. But he takes one look at the price tag and chokes faintly.

"Jane, this is more than my car payment."

"It's covered. Bureau expenses."

Cho believes that like he believes in the tooth fairy. But he's also seen Jane talk his way out of parking tickets. If anyone can persuade the Finance Department that a pair of handmade loafers and a silk shirt are essential workwear, then it's him.

He's not so convinced about the shades. But by this point, he's starting to feel kinda cool.

Jane grins. It's not like he has anything else to spend his money on, and watching the staid Agent Cho strutting in front of a mirror in the guise of a lothario is worth it. Gives a cheery thumbs up.

"That's the look we're going for."

(He hasn't bought himself any new clothes for nearly six years now. The laundry service take excellent care of him, discreetly replace certain items when they start to become unsavoury. He'd long ago got out of the habit of wearing a tie, a belt, lace-up shoes, a watch...well, at that point, he'd got out of the habit of doing much more than breathing.)

Now, he just has to tutor Cho in the art of the chat-up line...

Cho, back in his habitual work clothes, lays the suit on the counter.

"There's a man in the changing-room that wants your number." he says flatly.

"Oh." Jane is mildly thrown. "Er..why?"

"Apparently, you have great hair."

Jane is secure enough in his sexuality to be entertained. He's slightly surprised that Cho is amused too. Cho shrugs.

"I grew up in San Francisco, man." He snaps the shades on. "Be a good personal shopper and put the bags in the car."

"Personal shopper?"

"Well, he didn't think I was your boyfriend." Cho straightens his tie sniffily. "I don't dress well enough."


	11. Red Face

This has absolutely nothing to do with the 'Hot Australian Men' fanvids on YouTube. Not one thing.

.

.

Red Face

.

.

Van Pelt gives a muffled squawk. Gestures frantically to Lisbon, but the way she's grinning does not bode well.

Lisbon cackles. It's the only way to describe that unseemly noise. Then they both smirk at him. Jane, now rather unnerved, strolls over to investigate.

It's a very early publicity shot. Black and white, moodily lit, trying to look brooding and soulful. Dodgy shirt, even dodgier designer stubble, and what appears to be a medallion. Jane cringes.

"Everyone has embarrassing photos."

"Not all over the internet."

"It could be arranged." he mutters darkly.

"I didn't put it up there." Lisbon's eyes are still alight with mirth.

Jane grumbles back to the couch. Next time he cooks Lisbon dinner, he's going to play 'hunt the yearbook'.

Van Pelt pulls her own face straight, and meekly continues to run the search that has thrown up such...unexpected results. Lisbon bites her lip. Not that she'd ever tell him, but Jane, even posing like that, still looks hot. She grins, but regretfully decides that it would be unprofessional to have that as a screen-saver.

Though perhaps it's time she took that Hugh Jackman picture off her machine at home...


	12. Red Roadhouse

-I'm a film nerd. Not that that is really any excuse.-

.

.

Red Roadhouse

.

.

A small diner, end of the day, end of the case, end of the pizza. Normally, they'd be back to the office, but everyone had been hungry and rather more inclined to stay in the country than back in the heat of the city. So, somehow, the evening had slipped into an informal group of friends. Jackets and ties have been discarded, sleeves rolled up.

Naturally, it was Jane who drifted over to the jukebox.

"If he puts 'Chain of Fools' on..." Lisbon mutters. Van Pelt sniggers.

Cho and Rigsby are confused. This is obviously a 'girl' thing.

Lisbon is trying to shake the mental image she's given herself, and failing. Jane with wings would probably look...like something she really shouldn't be thinking about in public. Or in private. Or ever.

She's not sure whether another cold beer would be a good idea. But cold is good. It's very hot in here. Tunes back into the conversation. Van Pelt has gone to join Jane.

"What? I like Johnny Cash." Cho says, mildly offended.

"Gotta be the Boss." Rigsby juts his chin.

"I think Van Pelt just found the 'Dirty Dancing' soundtrack." Jane drops back into his seat, grins at Rigsby. "How's your cha-cha?"

Rigsby turns appropriately pale. Visibly relaxes when they are not assaulted by Bill Medley.

Van Pelt clearly wants to dance, isn't quite sure if she should. But Lisbon grins, jerks her thumb. They aren't on the clock, now, and she could do with some fun.

"Cut loose..."

0-0-0-0-0

Jane, happy to be designated driver for the evening, stretches back in his chair. The bar has really livened up by now, obviously a popular local hang-out. The music is cheesy, most of it older than the people dancing to it, but nobody cares.

Cho is huddled round his phone, finger in the other ear against the noise. The way he's smiling, that's not his mother he's talking to. Jane calculates. Yes, it is late night shopping tonight. Which means that in about twenty minutes, the man is going to slide inconspicuously out of the door, still trying to maintain the fiction of no private life.

Van Pelt is still shaking her groove thang on the floor. Rigsby is quite happily dancing, too. He's not bad, certainly no worse than a lot of the other men there. Some of them couldn't hit the beat with a big stick.

And Lisbon is a pool shark. Who'd a thought? Watches with amusement as the little woman stretches over the table, clears the last shot. Straightens, holds out her hand for her winnings. The man she's just hustled forces a laugh, doesn't want to look bad in front of his buddies. Stands a little too close. She gives him a small smile, moves back a pace, keeping it light and friendly. He doesn't take the hint, follows. Puts a hand on her arm.

He knows Lisbon can take care of herself. She's quite capable of putting any of these guys on the floor.

It still doesn't stop him rising out of his chair and moving across the room. This could be mis-interpreted as the possessive stalk of an angry boyfriend, he realizes, but it's too late now. What does he think he's going to do, anyway? He doesn't do physical. And if the scary rednecks don't kill him, Lisbon will. A pleasanter way to go, to be sure, but still...

Jane looks at the husky man looming at him. Wonders if he could hit him with something. Like Rigsby.

But Lisbon greets him with a wicked gleam in those eyes, not quite hiding her grin.

He wonders about putting an arm round her, but that might be a bit too possessive. (And quite possibly terminal.) Lisbon's grin widens. She is actually pleased to see him; she's so used to being one of the guys at work, that being hit on still surprises her occasionally. And whilst she's sure of handling it, it's quite nice to have a knight errant for a change. Very errant, in his case, but it's the thought that counts.

"Patrick." A frown and what's almost a pout. "You forgot my drink."

"Sorry, Terri." (Ooh, that's a nasty look.) "I can never remember those nasty cocktails you like." Turns to the man. "Don't you just hate having to ask for those?"

Pool guy gets the message. (Though he sure wonders what a hot little number like her is doing with a stiff in a suit.) Backs off, scowling slightly. Lisbon tilts a glance.

"Terri?" she mutters.

"Would you have preferred 'pumpkin'?"

Sputter of laughter.

"God, no. Jane, what were you thinking?"

"That you didn't deserve to have your evening ruined by grabby neanderthals?"

"No, I could spend it scraping you off the walls instead."

"Hey, no punches were thrown. I call that a win."

"I call that a miracle." But she's smiling. Racks her cue. "If you're going to be my protection detail, the least you can do is get me another drink. Preferably beer."

He knows his Lisbon. Three beers is really pushing the boat out. She must feel relaxed.

"Am I going to end up carrying you out to the car, woman?"

"Hah." She gives him a smirk. "Perhaps I'll go and dance it off."

She feels safe saying that. He knows she feels safe saying that. She knows that he doesn't dance. (Not any more.)

But Jane is feeling happy this evening. Relaxed. Vaguely wicked. And there's a terribly familiar Chuck Berry track starting up...

He grins. Lisbon's eyes go wide. His eyes narrow.

"Jane..." But he's grabbed her hand, heading for the crush, and she's laughing at him, half-horrified.

Well, there are worse ways to spend an evening.

.

.

(John Travolta - 'Michael' and, of course, 'Pulp Fiction' Wouldn't they look great as Vincent and Mia?)


	13. A Thousand Paper Frogs

A Thousand Paper Frogs.

.

.

Six months into her new post, and the title of 'Senior Agent' no longer squeaked when she turned round too quickly. Cho called her 'Boss' with both wry humour and real respect, and the new transfer, Rigsby, was shaping up well. Then Minelli had to go and drop the other shoe.

He was already notorious in the CBI. The maverick maniac. Closes like a fiend, but he'll burn you down in the process. Her promotion became a poisoned chalice. Last one in got the booby prize, hot potato landed right on her desk. See how she handles this one, baptism of fire, and no excuses.

She'd known from the outset that if she once let him get away with anything, she was lost. So after the first time out, (he wandered off, contaminated a crime scene and insulted a suspect), she'd dressed him down. Just because she's a woman, it doesn't mean he gets to flout her authority; she's worked damn hard to get where she is, and she does not deserve to have it taken away from her because some smirking jackass wants to play pissing games. But truly, people depend on them to help them through the worst bloody days of their lives, and that's what's really important here, not her ego, or his...

"...and so when I say jump, you jump. Got that?"

She'd fully expected him to shout back, give one of his devastating putdowns, storm off to Minelli.

And instead he'd smiled. Only quickly, and then he'd pulled his face straight, and actually expressed contrition, with something that could look like sincerity in a bad light.

Half an hour later, he sidled into her office, and the first frog leapt up at her. And she'd not caught her startled laugh in time. He was still trying to look penitent, but there was a wicked gleam in his eyes, and she knew that this was only the beginning.

Other women get chocolates, flowers as apologies. She gets paper amphibians.

She has a whole drawer of them, by now.


	14. The Guarding Dark

"_He created me. _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?_ Who watches the watchman? Me. I watch him. Always. You will not force him to murder for you."_

"_What kind of human creates his own policeman?"_

"_One who fears the dark."_

"_And so he should." said the entity, with satisfaction._

"_Indeed. But I think you misunderstand. I am not here to keep the darkness out. I'm here to keep it in."[...]"Call me...the Guarding Dark. Imagine how strong I must be."_

_Terry Pratchett "Thud"_

_._

_._

The Guarding Dark

.

.

People sometimes thought Wayne Rigsby was dumb. He didn't mind too much. He didn't have Cho's vocabulary, Jane's easy charm, but you didn't get to be a top arson investigator without some smarts.

He's a simple man, of simple pleasures. He likes good food, fast cars, pretty women, baseball.

But he can build you a bomb out of what you have in a kitchen, and he knows how to rewire almost anything as a detonator. He can identify a dozen different types of fuel and accelerant on sight alone. His attention to detail makes him a good agent.

People think it's funny that he takes orders from Lisbon, tiny woman a foot shorter than he is. But he knows that she understands that the badge is there to remind you of what you do, not merely to show other people.

When you've always been bigger and stronger, you find yourself in a lot of fights you didn't start, but damn well know how to finish. But you also find yourself having to remember to tread softly, hold back. Take your aggression out on the punch bag, the free weights. He eats a lot, because he works out a lot. Some days, the bad days, he has to take the bus home, spend the evening with ice on his knuckles.

It's as well for Hollenback that he got Rigsby down with that first blow. Because otherwise Rigsby knows what he could have done.

He totally understands Jane's desire to catch the bastard who murdered his family (and even if he doesn't know the full extent of Jane's murderous impulses, he can guess.) It bothers him that it doesn't bother him more. Smashing that perp's face into the table had felt far too good. He remembers everything from the hypnosis. Everything.

He doesn't want to see that spark of fear and disgust in Van Pelt's eyes again. So he'll go back to walking softly, watching himself every step of the way.

Big teddy bear. With a latent streak of grizzly.


	15. Red Pony

-a missing scene from 'Red Sauce'-

.

.

Red Pony

.

.

"Jane! Your present just left a present in my office."

"What am I supposed to do about it?" says a sleepy voice from the couch.

"Go borrow a bucket and shovel from Janitorial." She stifles a laugh. "Minelli wants it for his roses."

She's serious on both counts. Minelli gets a crack in about it being different from Jane's usual line of bull. Then he makes Jane carry it down to the car. Since Minelli is responsible for clearing the access to the elevator earlier, Jane does. It says quite a lot for his reputation for the bizarre that he can carry a bucket of steaming crap through the corridor, and no-one really gives him a second glance.

Lisbon has acquired a handful of Rigsby's carrot sticks, and is fussing over the animal when he gets back. He leans on the door-frame and watches her. That's exactly how he hoped she'd look, that gentle, happy smile.

"Has he got a name?"

"Gabby. Short for Gabilan." He makes a face. "Not sure whoever named him had actually read the whole story."

Gabby squints up at Jane, huffs noisily and nibbles at his sleeve. In the dim depths of his little pony brain, he associates this smell with being put into a series of small metal boxes. There had better be something to make up for it. Jane soothes him, digs the required apple out of his pocket.

"At least the horses on the jenny didn't bite..." he says, half to himself. Catches Lisbon's enquiring eye, grins. "I spent one memorable summer as a rousty over in Louisiana..."

She bites her lip.

"You know that I can't keep him."

His smile slips a little.

"You don't like him?"

"I love him." She speaks sincerely. "But I live in a walk-up block." Smiles at him, senses his hurt, tries to make light of it. " And if I kept him here, Rigsby might try and eat him."

"True." He sighs, understands. It was a nice idea, but impractical. Reverts to his back-up plan. "It's okay, I know a petting zoo that might have an opening. You have to visit him, though."

"Of course. Won't I, darling?"

Jane watches her, and something catches at him, fugitive emotion that slips through his fingers. Pushes it away, resolves to just enjoy this one quiet moment with her, the simple uncomplicated affection of an animal giving them a small place to stand, untouched.

0000000

She had been incredibly hurt to think that he might have forgotten her birthday, whatever she said. But this was...sweet and funny and endearingly weird. Pure Jane. The fact that he seems to have suborned even Minelli into the scheme is frankly a bit worrying. Nobody seems totally immune to the man's charm.

(Little twist in her heart. Had he ever thought of buying a pony for his daughter?)

Watches him laugh as the greedy little beast quests after his fingers. And she decides not to analyse it any further. It was just him. Being...whatever he was to her. And that is something she is certainly not going to think about with him this close.

Later, she sits in an office empty of both cute creatures, and opens her desk drawer for a pen. She's not all that surprised to find the little box. Draws her breath in. An elegant flask of her favourite perfume. She rarely wears scent to work, but very little gets past that man. She also knows exactly how much this costs, but she can't keep giving his gifts back. So she dabs a little on her wrists and allows herself a smile.

She knows that the gentle scent of sandalwood and cinnamon will linger in the air after she leaves, and that he'll know. And it covers up the smell of the pony poop, too.


	16. A Work in Progress

(Acknowledgments: 'Cabal', 'Red Dragon', 'American Psycho', and the Corinthian. I would so much rather this was out here, bothering you, than in my head, bothering me.)

.

.

A Work in Progress.

.

.

What a pathetic little room. And he had the effrontery to call me a sad man.

He's kept a memento. How thoughtful. I'm tempted to brighten his living area a little. Redecorate. Freshen it up. Bring a little colour into the room.

But I doubt he'd appreciate it. People so rarely do.

Well, of course I like to revisit the scene. I spent a great deal of time and trouble arranging it just so. Little touches, especially for him. Little piggies, all in a row. And how the piggies do squeal...

I digress.

I have kept an eye upon his career. After all, he is in one sense my creation. I made him a better person.

You must understand. I don't consider myself merely to be an Artist. I'm an...Educator. I enable people to transcend their limitations. There is a satisfaction in the Creation, that I will not deny. But - What was he before I entered his life? A shallow posturing fraud, grubbing for sordid cash. Arrogant golden trickster, playing with people's pain.

He needed to be taught. There are..consequences.

True pain isn't something that you can buy and sell. You have to earn it.

He dragged my Art into the tawdry light of the studio. Mocked me. He was not the first to venture such insolence, but the others hid in the darkness and anonymity of newsprint, or were mere paid minions of the state. But he set himself up as my equal. Prated some nonsense about how he sought to look into the flame of evil. Well, I decided that he should feel that flame.

So I Chose - them. And that act of Choice made them...Glorious.

He's more...rounded now. Aware. But still – incomplete in his understanding.

Every court needs a jester. A Fool. And I've Chosen him. He should be flattered. He's kept my interest for longer than any other. I thought him too broken to sport with more, but he surprised me. So I have shown him favour, and allowed him to enter the arena again. He led me to Renfrew. My bleating kid.

That was...diverting. I left a little something for them there, a cryptic nothing for them to chew upon. The last beats of his judas heart, as I held his wrist...at least he could serve in death. And there was my Fool, becoming aware of my power at last.

So he struggles within the web. Unaware of how I have blessed him.

One must sacrifice a few pawns here and there. Dumar was amusing for a while, but ultimately flawed. I have...others who wish to learn.

To some, I am a Soldier of Darkness, travelling the Road to True Knowledge, paving my way in blood and drinking in the tears. To others, a Gladiator, fighting against the muted greys of this poor world with scarlet and steel. But I am my own Law, my own Prophet. I am my world, complete.

I am not bound by petty morality, the mouthings of priests. I have no herd-instinct. I do what I do because I Choose to do so. I need no coins, no voice from the heavens, no desire but that of my own eyes. Anyone can be Chosen.

Perhaps one day I may Choose that sweet pawn he seeks to make his new queen. But not until it will really - hurt.

So I must leave my sweet Rosalind, slip into the night and assume another face. It is her very flaw that has protected her thus far. Those who see my True Face are transported to another plane. Once you behold Glory, there is no returning to the mundane world. My Fool knows this.

Meanwhile, my punishment eludes me, and my life is sweet.

There is a glorious freedom to it. What can they do to me, should they ever be so lucky as to trap me? Lock me away. Take my life.

It will not alter what I have done.

Look upon my works, and despair.


	17. Gone to the Movies

Post 'Carnelian Inc' and the car conversation. In the AnJLverse, pre-'Green Eyes'

.

.

Gone to the Movies

.

.

Lisbon is leaving earlier than usual. Checking her watch. An appointment of some sort, then. But nothing serious, she looks quite relaxed. He hopes it isn't a date. Clears his throat.

"Running out on your reports, Lisbon?"

"Well, you didn't actually do anything requiring disciplinary paperwork today." She actually smiles at him.

He really hopes it isn't a date. Swings his legs off the couch and picks up his jacket.

Lisbon, well aware that she has piqued his curiosity, is not surprised when he falls into step. Jane is by far the nosiest person she knows. Since she is not hiding anything dark or important, she lets him stew.

He's slightly surprised when she doesn't turn towards her car, but continues towards the gate.

"So, where are we going?" he asks brightly.

"We?" Bites her lip against a smile.

"C'mon. We talked about trust. You should trust me."

"I remember. I nearly ended up on my butt."

"But I said I'd catch you. I caught you. And you didn't answer me. Where are we going?"

He is quite capable of following her all evening, she knows, which might be amusing. Or possibly just irritating. She lifts a shoulder.

"I'm going to the movies, Jane."

"Oh." There is a pause. "Alone?"

That does not come out quite as casually as he might have liked.

"Well, not if you keep following me." She says acidly, then closes her eyes. Damn.

"Is that an invitation? What are we going to see?"

Is she really contemplating going into a darkened room and sitting next to Patrick Jane for two hours or so? He seems quite happy with the idea.

If she thinks of it as a similar experience to taking her nephew out then she might just get through this with dignity and temper intact.

"Whatever looks good. And you're not to talk all the way through."

"Aww. Do I get pop-corn?"

Very much like taking her nephew out. And he's seven.

Jane can't remember the last movie he saw on a big screen. He didn't even know there was a cinema in walking distance of the office. Six years and a lifetime ago, he was more likely to be pressing the flesh at some society soiree. Now, he spends dark hours watching pay-per-view trash. But the chance to spend a little quiet time with Lisbon is a thing that holds increasing appeal these days...

"What put this into your mind?" Then he smiles. "Lisbon. Our conversation. You remembered. How sweet."

"It reminded me that I haven't been for a while." she hedges. She doesn't really like going to the pictures alone. Rom-coms are meant to be viewed in pairs, comedies in groups. And stupid, cartoon-violence sci-fi needs a male as cover. And occasionally as a deterrent. She's met a few really weird individuals at those films. And that's by comparison with the one peering at the billboard.

It turns out to be surprisingly companionable, bickering gently over film choices. Neither of them fancy gross-out comedy, or anything with something serious to say about the human condition. Then Lisbon gives an un-Lisbon-like squeak at the prospect of a favourite actor. Jane rolls his eyes.

"Far be it from me to deny you a chance to drool at some pretty idiot in a suit..."

If it's a crime thriller, they can both mock the procedural bits. It's not like it's a date movie, or anything.

00000000

"Sweet or salt popcorn?"

"Half and half."

"Urgh. Lisbon, that sounds nasty."

"Get your own, then."

"Oh, I'm always open to new experiences."

She eyes the size of the drink cartons with amusement and alarm. She's got a cop's bladder, trained on stakeouts, it doesn't bother her. Though if Jane drinks that much caffeinated sugar-water, she's going to be pulling him off the ceiling.

00000000

Settling in the dark, ignoring the touch of elbows, so much closer than the car. She's conscious of the warm length of his thigh next to hers.

Dipping into the popcorn bucket, he finds a small hand already there, and their knuckles brush as her fingers slide hastily away, and he loses the thread of the plot.

He hasn't been out with another woman since his wife died (_since they were killed, and it's all your fault) _hasn't been intimate with anyone (_Sophie looking at him with soft, dazed eyes) _and now all he can feel in the world is the aftershock of her skin.

He's glad of the darkness. He can hide from himself for a few hours.

00000000

She relaxes into the bright shapes and colours, only half aware of shoulder, elbow, hip touching, laughing and lost in another world.

He sits there, reduced to the stolen treasure of such fleeting contact. Cursing himself for a juvenile fool, and laughing at his own wilful blindness.

This isn't a date. They both know that. But in the half-light glow of the silver screen, you could mistake it for one.


	18. Crimson Catnip

Jane is annoying Lisbon, as usual.

.

.

Crimson Catnip

.

.

Lisbon, curled on her couch, shoes kicked off, buries her nose in her glass of wine, and takes a thankful sip. It's been a trying day. Not helped by the Usual Suspect.

Honestly, women just threw themselves at him wherever they went on a case. It makes actual work very difficult. And really, she thinks crossly, what is the big deal?

He's far too charming for his own good - all that hand holding and intense eye contact. The way he springs to open doors. He cruises through the world, fallen angel looking for redemption. His unspoken "Don't love me, I'm broken", nursing his wounded heart behind that gorgeous grin - that was just an open invitation, brings them out in droves. He'd flirt with garbage trucks, if he thought it would get him somewhere.

He drives too fast, in that totally ridiculous car of his. It might have its own quirky style, but it's hardly practical. Just another 'look at me' gesture, all sleek lines and cool elegance.

It's like those suits, that mark him out in a crowd. Never wears a tie, just that careless way his shirts fall open at the neck. And then the way that the cut of the vest showed off his butt, when he casually tosses the jacket aside - the man's a shameless exhibitionist.

And now he's started working out in the CBI gym with Rigsby, it seems that a great number of other women in the building feel the need to get fit. So what if he has sculpted pecs and a washboard stomach? They don't have to line up to drool at him.

Plenty of men have the sort of good, thick hair you want to run your fingers through. The way it curls onto the back of his neck, well, it's nothing special.

The same goes for that smile. It might light up his whole face, the whole room, but it's just a smile, however cute. The mere movement of cheek muscles shouldn't cause anyone to melt in a puddle. It's indecent to watch, the way he uses it. He might be criminally handsome, but that's no excuse to go around flustering people.

And anyone would be thrown off balance by having someone stare deep into their eyes; doesn't matter if the eyes doing the staring are hazel, brown or that sea-colour between blue and green, that shifts with his every mood, playful, soulful or just plain scary.

So what if he's sweet, and funny, and very good at choosing really thoughtful gifts for people? He invades personal space and private thoughts with casual ease, with his know-it-all grin and wicked eyes.

And then, of course, if you wrap that all up in an apron, whilst he cooks you what smells like an excellent dinner...

Oh. Dammit.

She takes a big gulp of wine.

Okay, so just maybe she does get what the big deal is. Bloody man.


	19. Mistletoe and Whine

By my reckoning, Christmas should have fallen just after 'Red Brick and Ivy'

.

.

Mistletoe and Whine

.

.

Jane, looking slightly hunted, darts in and shuts the door.

"I need to hide in your office."

"Why?"

"Because Turner is stalking the halls armed with mistletoe, Lisbon."

She grins at him. Jane has of course been trying to manoeuvre Rigsby and a mortified Van Pelt under said mistletoe all day. She's amused that he's getting a taste of his own medicine. Turner is a large, jolly, boisterous woman of a certain age who finds Jane 'just precious'.

"You object to being kissed?"

"Not under certain circumstances. But random lunging under the influence of Christmas cheer is not one of them."

It is one thing she has noticed. Jane uses touch, intense eye contact as tools. He's not always comfortable with contact back. Mind you, neither is she. It's why she's hiding in her office instead of being downstairs at the party. There is one recent circumstance in her mind, though, and she teases before she thinks,

"Is it because she's not wearing a white coat?"

Jane is startled.

Seeing Sophie again had been...strange. For all that façade of cool competence, she was a needy woman, ageing out of a co-dependent relationship with a control freak. Her need had given him a lever, and he'd pushed his weight against it, ruthless. She had helped him - given him purpose, given him a mask to face the world, but he'd regained his control by subverting hers. Her treatment of Lisbon had been eye-opening. He'd always seen her as a man's woman. But her quite blatant dismissal of the woman beside him had given him sharp jab of something, a strange mix of anger and amusement. And at the last, she had looked at him with that warm, hopeful gaze.

After months of green-eyed exasperation, it startled him.

He doesn't want adoration. He prefers - a small hard fist smacking him in the chest. Unconditional trust and affection are never good for him. He's aware that he needs someone to give him limits. If only so he can break through them. He'd been so pleased to get a female boss. And the tough maternal streak was the icing on the cake. He could always find women who wanted to heal a damaged soul.

Manipulation came as easily as breathing.

Didn't mean it always felt good.

But Lisbon was better than that. She saw through him. In a world where life was the game, and trust the way of keeping score, she refused to play. Honest and fierce, she tries to help him because it's the right thing to do, not because he wants her to.

Now, she's looking guilty. Which is interesting. So he plays his best card.

"It's just," a little shrug, sincerity in his eyes, "parties. Y'know, it's still a bit...awkward."

That is definitely guilt. But she knows him too well. Apologetic, but not backing down this time.

"Okay, cougar-meat. I'll protect you."

"Cougar-meat?" He looks faintly appalled. "Lisbon, I'm too old to be a toy boy."

"Well, if you didn't flirt with absolutely everyone, they wouldn't get the wrong idea, would they?"

"Me? Flirt?" Wide eyes, and his best innocent expression.

"Yes, you."

"I just take a friendly interest in people, woman. You should try it. It would work wonders for your social life."

"I have work to do." But he's scored a point somewhere, he can tell. Her smile slips for a second. "I'm going down to the party later."

"You should." He suddenly wants that smile back. "Last I saw, Rigsby had a pair of plastic reindeer horns on, and Cho was baiting him with a tablecloth."

This has the twin virtues of being true, and of making her laugh. He sits himself on the edge of her desk.

"Are you taking time off in this wonderful holiday season?"

She eyes him, but reluctantly concedes that lying would be fruitless.

"I'm staying home."

"Another movie marathon?"

"Bond films." she admits. "The alternative was visiting my brother Niall, and his youngest is teething."

"Ah."

There is an awkward pause. She knows she should find something bright to say, but she can't bear to ask him what he's planning to do over the holidays. Not with his past.

She tries to avoid speculation about him, actually. She can cope with him being flirtatious and arrogant. The shame-faced honesty of his recent confession to a breakdown had shaken her. And she had taken a dislike to Sophie Miller that she didn't want to investigate too closely. She'll choose to believe that it's disgust that the woman seems to have abused her position of trust as his therapist.

He can read her face, she knows. His smile is wry, gentle.

"It's okay, Lisbon. I'm not going to do anything drastic."

They aren't on the sort of terms where she can invite him over. She wishes they were, suddenly, so she doesn't have to think of him in some lonely room, eating dinner out of a tray. But she looks away; pity will only make him bite. And it's what she's going to be doing, after all.

"I hate this time of year." She snaps. "All this forced cheer, the expectation of it."

"You, my dear, are a grinch." He laughs, softly, suddenly a bit too close. "Not all things about Christmas are bad. There are some customs..."

Lisbon doesn't want to look up at the arm over her head. He wouldn't dare...no, he would.

She sighs. Pecks Jane on the cheek.

"Hah. Lisbon kissed a boy."

"On the cheek."

"Still counts." He bounces her own recent words back to her, smirks. "And I didn't actually have any mistletoe."

"You..."

He skips back out of her reach.

"Random lunging, Lisbon. I could have you for harassment."

"I hope Turner gets you." She slaps him in the chest. "In fact, I'm taking you back to the party now, and handing you over."

She's a constant surprise to him. He hadn't expected her to fall for that. Cross little peck, more kick than caress. So very Lisbon.

Lisbon is totally horrified with herself. Not just because she'd fallen for one of his dumbass tricks, (she'd kissed him, oh god) but because a very, very tiny part of her mind is cursing at her that if he was going to torment her for it, she could have at least got to kiss him properly. Which was wrong and awful, and taking advantage of a troubled, emotionally unavailable and possibly unstable co-worker. He's still grieving, for heaven's sake.

To be fair, he's not looking particularly grief-stricken at present, grinning like a fool. So she slaps him again, and starts banging her files away angrily.

Jane covertly picks the wilted scrap of greenery out of his pocket, and looks at it with amusement. He'd been so tempted, reluctantly decided that it would be cheap, and that Lisbon deserved better. And she'd still kissed him.

He drops it into the bin, and follows her out.

"So, what is Bureau policy on Senior agents abusing their staff?"

"Shut up."

"I'm curious. Is there a form I have to fill in?"

"I am going to gift-wrap you and hand you over."


	20. Stealing Home

-sometime late in the series, but post 'Ruby Tuesday' in the AnJLverse. I was wondering about that room we saw him not sleeping in, in 'Red Handed'...

.

.

Stealing Home

.

.

Another interview ended with Minelli snapping "Get him under control." Like Jane is some naughty puppy who just wet the rug. She sighs. Maybe she should just clip him on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. It won't stop him, but it might make her feel better. Particularly if she can get hold of one of the big Sunday editions...

As if summoned by the thought of him, (which is disturbing,) Jane sticks his head round the door-frame.

"Lisbon..." Unaccustomed gravity in his face and voice, "I need the afternoon off."

At least he's bothered to ask this time. But she's a little curious. He doesn't get sick, and he has perfect teeth. She waits, wary, to see what damage control she may have to do.

Clear invitation in her face, even if she doesn't ask aloud. Jane sighs, pulls the door to.

"I've been asked to move. Again."

He has a house, of course. The house. Glass and wood and shadows, a little stain of darkness in the sunshine of Malibu.

_...It isn't a home. Not any more. Not since the night his arrogance cost him the only love and security he'd ever known. Now – it's a monument to his folly, a tomb of hopes. Memento mori. That's where he goes to sleep with his ghosts..._

Day to day, or night to night, he lives (exists) out of suitcases. Designer remnants of a former life, their slick exteriors mock from the corners of anonymous hotel rooms.

_...It's a return to childhood really, this peripatetic existence. Lonely little boy, who learnt to make friends quickly as he went from school to school, learnt to lie convincingly to the concerned adults. Buying friends with tricks and gifts, because everyone and everything is for sale, and never letting anyone in, because you can't give pieces of your heart away, there's never enough to go around when the time comes to move on.... _

But fame has become notoriety, his desire for the limelight come back to bite him in the ass. Occasionally, it was reporters, crime writers. Sometimes, it was ghouls. Or, sometimes, it was merely the nightmares that stalked into the room, flashing razorblade smiles where their eyes should be and laughing blood-red.

People were very sensitive about somebody screaming through the walls.

"...I've been through most of the hotels in the city by now. Some of them don't want me back, if you can imagine such a thing." Invites her to laugh with him, though her heart twists. "So I have to look a bit further out."

There are a couple of crates that have his life boxed inside. Everything that had not been stained, trampled, (_touched by Him_), damaged by crime scene investigators, police, his own pain and rage. Nearest thing to 'home' is the battered couch, a small constant. And every so often, when the loneliness (_the need_) overwhelms him, he turns up on Lisbon's doorstep with groceries.

He enjoys cooking for her. It is something he can do for her, wordless gesture of...companionship. She won't accept anything else from him, uncomfortable with grand gestures. She's not indifferent to good food, fine wine, but it is not something she indulges in frequently. The job curtails much of a social life, either by the hours or by its very nature. And Lisbon does not spend money on herself. She enjoyed the spa voucher Rigsby gave her, but it would never occur to her to book one herself. Careful with her money through experience. (And yet she'd given him $100 in blithe confidence, once. Paradox and small gesture of faith, in one.) So he invades her peace, her home, a selfish, small pretence to himself.

000000000

Jane invites himself over on a semi-regular basis - he insists on visitation rights with the cactus, he says. She's alarmed to realise that she's almost become accustomed to finding him in her kitchen (and she's far more careful about leaving her laundry about.) She hopes that she still has some secrets from him, fears that she doesn't. Anyway, what does she have to hide? The guilty physical attraction was hardly that secret – he'd teased her about it from early in their acquaintance. It's a given. And whilst he'll embarrass her with small things, there is a fragile understanding between them over history.

She finds things – A bottle of very good olive oil she certainly doesn't remember buying. Her junk mail made into little origami animals. A plastic spider in the bath. (She'd dropped that covertly into his tea next day.)

She doesn't quite understand why she continues to let him invade her life. Their odd...friendship has angles and corners. Not precisely inappropriate, but freighted with ambiguity. He'd once joked that he'd never seduce her over a meal, and occasionally, she finds herself feeling a little wistful about that. Shuts it down ruthlessly. Her badge is her shield, in more than one sense.

The most seductive thing isn't the flirting, the banter. It's the quiet little moments, that connection. He has a fund of small, silly stories - carny tales, showbiz gossip, lighter events from his life, though once he started to mention his father, stopped abruptly. She didn't push. (He never mentions his family by name, and she is strangely grateful. She is selfish enough to not want their presence in her home, though they are an ever present shadow.) There are small instances when she can acknowledge, even if just to herself, that she enjoys his company, regrets his leaving, hates her own weakness.

Knows him well enough to know that this latest upheaval will make him feel the need to bother her. So it hardly surprises her when he leans back round the door, grins, and says,

"I thought I might try a stir-fry tonight..."

"Last time you nearly set the kitchen on fire." She sighs, bites her lip, and puts her hand in her pocket. "Here."

He catches the lobbed object. Familiar key.

"Mrs Carson is getting very fed up of you interrupting her soaps." She doesn't look up at him. "Now go find yourself a flop-house, and let me get on with some work."

She wonders what she has just done, what possessed her. (Denies the thought that she has been carrying that copy in her bag for a few weeks now, and wondering when.)

Jane curls his fingers round the key, startled beyond words. Temporarily, at least.

"Lisbon..." The dark head remains stubbornly bent. "Thank you." He says quietly.

There are times to tease. And there are times to be truly thankful that in this dark, chaotic world, there are some people who will take a chance on you, against their better judgement. For whatever reasons. Even the ones neither of you dare to think about too closely.


	21. Denial Isn't Just a River

Denial Isn't Just a River

.

.

She's always distrusted movie-star looks in a man. Prefers dark and rugged.

(Easily bored, he's flipping a playing card around his fingers. Ring in the dashboard glow.)

She likes her men competent, upbeat and uncomplicated.

(Damaged, dangerous, grieving. He carries more baggage than Fed-Ex.)

She has to remember that this liability is her responsibility, a professional charge.

(Constantly reminding herself.)

All this flirting with Jane, it can't mean a thing.

(Movement, the suspect heading towards them, and it's time to put herself in harm's way again.)

0000000

His wife had been long and lean and golden. She ate health-food, dressed with elegance, had never fired a gun in her life.

(Lisbon, hair scraped back anyhow at the end of a sixteen hour shift, bulky in her vest, dropping her slice of cold pizza.)

He's always liked blonde women. Likes to be in control.

(Hard little hand shoves him in the chest, tells him to "stay put.")

He's always liked tall, graceful women.

(Lisbon tackles a man twice her size, brings him down in a flurry of gravel and curses.)

All this flirting with Lisbon, it doesn't mean a thing.

(She limps back to the SUV, and he sees the graze down her face.)

0000000

And he's out of his seat in an instant, fussing over the grit in her cheek, deft fingers gentle as he scolds, and she scowls and lets him, and the rest of the team are careful not to let their indulgent grins betray them.


	22. Does Not Play Well With Others

-a tag to 'Scarlett Fever'. The Organized Crime 'cowboys' are not gentlemen. Sorry.-

.

.

Does Not Play Well With Others

.

.

"Cowboys?" Sibley gestures rudely back through the glass. "Bitch." Slaps his hand on the table in frustration. "Dammit, another minute, and we'd a had him."

"Told you she wouldn't like it." Chenkov grunts, switches his gum.

"What's her deal, anyhow? Guy's Bureau freelance."

"Yeah, right. Everyone knows he's Lisbon's favourite toy. And she don't like to share."

"Crap. Always thought she swung the other way."

"Nah. Just 'cos she didn't want to do you..." Smirks at his partner's scowl. "Did hear a rumour she was boffing some guy in Serial, before she made Senior."

"Missed that one. What she do afterwards, bite his head off?"

They watch the scene through the glass some more.

"Did he just call her 'woman'?"

"Uh-huh."

"And he's still got his balls?"

"Tell you – conjure-boy got his mojo working."

"Jesus."

In the other room, Jane snaps the gang-banger out of his trance, and Lisbon drags him out.

"Ah, crap." Sibley sighs. "Guess we'd better go deal with the asswipe and his shyster, then."

"Old school."

"Believe it." Sour laugh. "Maybe we shoulda put Lisbon in there with him."

"Had a girl in college like that." Chenkov grins round his gum, happy memory. "Went like a train, though. Once you got her juiced."

"Hell, he wants to get himself ripped a new one regular, he's welcome. Wouldn't mind me a piece of that rookie she got, though."

"The redhead?" Chenkov considers. "Sweet." Looks up at his partner's lanky height. "You got the inches."

"Oh, do I ever." Crude hitch of his groin. "Hafta get past that big-ass dude, though..."

"Heh. There's no chick worth getting your ass beat for. Let's do this thing. You wanna be bad cop today?"

"Sure. Oh, hey." Sibley's face lightens. "He got that little baby lawyer from the P.D office. Five bucks says I can make him pee his pants."

"You're on."


	23. Instant Karma: Just Add Water

Instant Karma: Just Add Water

.

.

Lisbon rests her chin in her hands. She's not sure why the coffee-shop in the rec centre fronts out over the indoor pool, but it makes for some very pleasant scenery. She's watching one particular body move up and down the pool. Whoever he is, he's very, very good. Fast, economical, slicing through the water.

Van Pelt, eyes on the loaded tray, walks back to the table. She's quietly flattered that Lisbon has taken on board her suggestion, come to try out the yoga class. She admires her boss, and it's nice to find a rapport outside of work. It's also fun to find that Lisbon has a human side. She peers through the wall, to see what has caught Lisbon's attention.

Lisbon, caught out, grins, only half abashed.

"Just...admiring the view."

"Fine...architecture." Van Pelt agrees. Pause. "The red trunks?"

"Oh, yes."

They both crane for a better view. Watch the flash of red make a fast and flashy turn, power back through the water.

"Natural swimmer's physique." Van Pelt comments.

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. Good strong shoulders."

"Mmm. Shoulders are important."

The swimmer they have both been ogling reaches the end of the pool, pulls himself out with unhurried ease, and slicks back his wet hair.

"I don't know about good shoulders, but that is a damn fine a..argh."

He's turned round. Lisbon makes a strangled noise. Fate hates her.

"Oh my." Van Pelt says quietly, smothering a nervous giggle. She's not going to be able to look at Jane for a while without going...pretty much the same colour Lisbon is going now. They catch each other's eye, and have to look away hastily, biting lips.

Then they both turn back and have another look.

"I guess all that working out with Rigsby is paying off." Lisbon says in a studiously detached tone.

"It would seem so."

So that's what he's been hiding under that suit. It makes the upswing in CBI gym membership a little more understandable. Hell, make that a lot more understandable. Lisbon takes a deep draught of her juice. My, but it's hot in here.

"We shouldn't be doing this." She says reluctantly.

"No." Van Pelt agrees.

A pause.

"Do you want another juice, boss?"

"Yeah. Please."

"Ice?"

"Don't push it." But she's sniggering. Takes another considering look. She's only human, after all. And that _is_ a damn fine ass.

00000000

Jane is unaware that he has an audience. Well, a particular one, anyway.

A long time since he's been swimming. But the realisation of how unfit he'd let himself get had dragged him out of his room, and down to the rec. Too warm to go running, and he's done his weights for the week. He'd forgotten how good it felt, just concentrating upon breathing, movement, freedom. It takes his mind off things.

He'd been on his way down to the pool. He hadn't even meant to look into the room in passing, it was a pure reflex. And he wonders what it says about him that he can recognise one particular bottom at just one glance. Lisbon values her down-time. So it would not be conducive to peace and tranquil reflection to find Patrick Jane waving at her through the window of her yoga class.

He has some standards, after all. And leering at somebody whilst they are trying to relax and exercise would be wrong.

Though perhaps he should consider swimming here on Tuesdays from now on...


	24. Behind the Wheel

_-"Nobody with a good car needs to be justified."- Wise Blood_

_Post 'Carnelian Inc', pre-'Green Eyes'._

_._

_._

Behind the Wheel

.

.

They are a good hour past the last rest-stop, bowling through a sunny landscape of pure boredom, when there is a muffled report. The car gives a lurch, and bucks off the road with a expensive grinding noise. Lisbon fights the wheel; she's a good driver, but this has taken her by surprise. They slew to a stop, and her belt winds her, but the air-bags don't activate, and they sit there, pinking of cooling metal startlingly loud. She rests her forehead on the wheel, fighting bile.

"Lisbon?"

"I'm fine. You?"

"I'm going to have some nice bruises. You can kiss them better if you like."

He's okay. She turns her head enough to glare. Jane gives her a slightly shaken grin.

"You could reciprocate the offer, you know."

"Shut up." She's annoyed to find her hands shaking as she tries to loosen her belt. Adrenaline, that's all. He keeps silent, but his fingers find the release faster than hers.

They both get cautiously out of the vehicle. He winces, rubs his ribs. He'd been dozing, really, more than half his mind occupied with the curve of her cheek, not noticing the road, and he'd been considerably jolted before he could brace himself.

"Did we hit something?"

"Not that I saw."

The off-side wheel is shredded. Lisbon sighs. She hates changing tyres. She's strong for her size, but wrestling the damn things is still awkward, and although she's not particularly girly, she does hate messing up her nails. It's also going to take time. The priority is to get the case covered.

Sighing, she digs her cell out, and swears.

"Dammit. I'm going up to higher ground, see if I can get a better signal. Stay with the car."

She doesn't wait for a response, just heads up the rise.

0000000

"I got through to Cho, but..." She can't see Jane. "Where the hell are you?"

"I don't think we cracked anything, it's just the wheel that needs changing."

Voice is near, but muffled. Walks around the front of the vehicle. Jane straightens up from under the hood.

He's taken off his shirt, and there's rather more skin on display than she's prepared for. Somehow, Jane and motor mechanics is not a connection that she's ever made. As it is, she's got a remarkably good view of his chest, which rather negates any other thought.

"I didn't want to get oil on my clothes. The laundry get a bit irritated by it." Waves a hand in front of her eyes. "Hello, Lisbon?"

"Erm...bruises." She manages.

She's always thought of him as a bit...useless, really. Oh, he's very, very good at what he does, mind tricks and profiling. She knows he can cook. But she's never thought of him as remotely practical.

It explains his unholy fascination with climbing on tractors, she thinks, a little wildly.

He knows that he's surprised her. But he's a little bit insulted. Does she really think he's that hopeless? Obviously she does.

"I'll pretend you beat me up, if you like. You have a choice – wanton violence, or bad driving."

She snaps out of wherever she is, glares at him.

"There is nothing wrong with my driving."

"If you had a smaller vehicle, you might be able to control it better. Honestly, woman..."

"Shut up." She reaches for the jack, crossly, but he holds it up out of her reach.

"Just go and sit quietly, and let someone else do the work for a change."

She does, still slightly stunned by his remove from the purely decorative. He clearly does know what he's doing.

"I really never pictured you as mechanically minded. Does that contraption of yours break down a lot?"

"The DS is very reliable, thank you. But...it's not the first car I've ever had."

_...Patrick Jane, in his late teens, skinny, hair bleached even fairer by the sun, in nothing but a pair of old jeans held together with hope, had spent a good few hours tinkering with the engine of his Chevy. He loved her, but the old girl had a habit of shedding small but vital parts and of leaking fluids when least expected..._

"Long story short – my father wanted me to follow in his footsteps, had a college picked out. I disagreed with his choice..."

_...two-bit diploma from some asylum filled with Bible-freaks wasn't going to be his life. Laying hands upon the sick and suffering certainly does not appeal. So he slips from one life to the next, exchanges the sober black suit and narrow tie, for an aloha shirt and a hei matau..._

"...That old saying...God tipped the world, and all the loose nuts rolled to California?" Spreads his arms, grins. "Sun, surf and smokin' chicks."

"You were a surf-bum." She's hardly surprised. The part of her mind that seems to have taken up residence in the gutter is picturing a younger, skinnier, blonder version of what's in front of her. And whimpering faintly.

"I was good." He protests. She believes him. He's nothing if not competitive. It's still quite a stretch from that to the slick operator of his adult career, but it's a few more pieces of the puzzle. "Anyway, you live in California. Don't tell me you hate the beach."

"I'm from Chicago, remember? I can skate, but I can't surf."

Jane has a favourite guilty fantasy involving Lisbon in a wetsuit. But Lisbon in a tiny skating outfit will do nicely. Mentally slaps himself, and continues to wrestle with the jack.

She pulls her eyes off his spine with difficulty. It must be the heat. Wanting to lick a colleague has to be the first sign of sunstroke.

"I always thought you said you were carny folk."

"No, you said that."

They don't do personal, as a rule. Oh, he knows her background, she's sure, but he's never made any reference. And she knows the public tragedy of Patrick Jane, as does everyone. But he never mentions his distant past, certainly not his childhood.

"We...just moved about a lot when I was a kid. I probably come from a long and distinguished blood-line, but," shrugs, "original family name could have been Janowicz, for all I know." He smiles. "Whereas you, my little leprechaun, are easy to place."

She yelps with amused outrage. Ethnically correct, but unflattering. He gives her a more considering look.

"Actually, much as I would like to think that I'm making you blush with my display of manly competence, I think you might be in danger of burning that lovely pale skin of yours."

She rummages in her bag for her sunscreen, glad of an excuse to cool her hot cheeks. Because a semi-naked man displaying manual competence _is_ rather attractive. (Hell, she's in trouble even allowing that thought headroom.)

"Spare some of that for me?" He grins cheekily. Presents her with his back.

Her mouth dries up.

Putting sunscreen on Patrick Jane is something she is quite sure a lot of people would pay serious money for. She tries not to think about it. It's a sensible thing to be doing in this hot, hot sunshine. Prepares to be brisk and professional about it.

(ohgodohgodhefeelssogood)

Jane is having a little moment all of his own. He'd been half joking, though sunburn was not funny. But now, he's got two small hands gently anointing his shoulder-blades, sliding down the muscles, and something very far from rational thought is happening to him.

His body has not been _touched_, skin to skin, a woman's hands, for years. If the shock of brushing her fingers in the cinema had been bad, this was worse. His skin_ sings_, and he makes an involuntary noise, half-moan, half-growl.

Hands lift away as if scalded.

She's rarely seen Jane embarrassed, though she knows it's possible. Watches him warily, wonders whether she should be apologising, and if so, what for, exactly.

Jane is suddenly aware that if she touches him again, he's not completely certain of his own control. Sophie had put fingers to his face, his chest, but it had never burnt through him. He'd thought he was dead, his body frozen. Oh, he could feel heat, cold, pain, but he'd regarded it as mere animal sensation, his mind unaffected. And now every nerve is jangling, thoughts scrambling.

He draws in a deep breath through his nose, and summons up a grin.

"Want to do my front, too?"

"Do your own chest." She slaps the bottle into his hands, retreats hastily.

Both conscious that they are straying very near a line which has suddenly become shockingly apparent.

She retreats to a safe distance. Though perhaps the only really safe distance would be over the State line. Desperately wishes she had something to read, or something to occupy her mind, other than watching him. Her mind is going to play back the feel of him under her palms for quite some time. They have bickered, flirted, built up a rapport, shared quiet moments and a few laughs. But now she is very aware of him not as Jane, the egotistical work-colleague, but as Patrick, the man. She's always found him attractive, but she has always, in the deepest privacy of her own head, treated him as a mere sex object, so that she doesn't have to deal with the reality. But that...noise he'd made had been very real.

He is equally glad that he has something to concentrate on. He feels...branded. She's laid her hands on him, dragged him back into the land of the living. Conscious of blood and breath and sweat, sun and wind across his shoulders. Damn the woman. He's watched the parade of so much flesh over the years, and it has left him unaffected. And then one small, angry...banshee gets in under his guard, and he's lost. Is this a betrayal?

They don't speak again, until he is buttoning his shirt.

"Lisbon? You can try the engine now."

"Thank you." Polite and common-place.

Then she catches his eye, and suddenly it's all too silly. Wicked humour wells up in her, matches the spark in him. Both equally embarrassed, they take refuge in laughter.

Dressed, he's again the dilettante of the office, ghost of the surfer-boy vanished behind tailoring. She's his tough, capable supervisor, nervous woman masked by hard-boiled professionalism.

The engine starts first time, and she draws smoothly back onto the road. Less an hour since they spun off, in real terms. It feels...longer.

"Nobody would believe this." he says regretfully.

"That you can do something useful?"

"No, that you were mauling my semi-naked body."

"Jane!"

"Concentrate on the road, woman. We only had the one spare."

She supposes this is how it's always going to be. She doesn't know if she's glad or sorry.

"Actually...maybe they would believe it."

"Shut up." She reaches a hand over, bats him lightly in the chest.

"Ow. Bruises."

She hopes he doesn't reiterate his early invitation to kiss them better. She's horrified that she finds herself tempted. But she's his boss. And he still wears his bloody wedding ring.

Part of him would like to grab the wheel, pull them over to the roadside, feel that rush again. But he's terrified and confused, even as elation sings through him.

So they take refuge in the banter, burning up with separate guilt.


	25. Reckless Abandon

-total change of pace. A little cracktastic idea-

.

.

Reckless Abandon

.

.

"What complete and utter _idiot_ thought that a 'Bring your Child to Work' day was a good thing?" Van Pelt sits down heavily at her desk.

The normally peaceful offices hum with voices considerably higher in pitch than usual. Sticky fingers poke at keyboards, in the case of smaller children. The older ones scuff around, bored, wanting to see the guns. They have eaten the good stuff in the vending machines, and nicked the decent stationery.

"Don't you like kids?" Rigsby is crestfallen. Cho rolls his eyes. Mr 'White-picket-fence' has future coach of the Little League written all over him.

"I quite like small children. Not thirteen year olds who think I'm a 'hot babe'." Van Pelt tries to wrestle her skirt down over her knees.

Cho turns his laugh into a cough.

"It's not like we don't have experience of child-minding." he points out.

Murmurs of mutual agreement.

"I give it five minutes until the Boss wants to know where..." Rigsby breaks off, busies himself.

"Wants to know what?" Lisbon asks, appearing suddenly.

Lisbon herself is reasonably fond of children, but she doesn't like them swarming around her workplace. It makes her crabby.

"Where the statements are from the last case." Van Pelt saves him; Rigsby's glance is eloquently grateful. "Got them here."

Lisbon takes the proffered paperwork.

"Thanks. Now, has anyone seen Jane?"

The team exchange looks of resignation and despair.

"Oh, never mind, I'll find him. He's probably hypnotized some poor child into handing over their candy or something."

Jane gets on well with kids; she puts it down to arrested development. She had been wary to begin with, worried that any cases involving children would be even tougher on him, but he'd been flippantly reassuring. ("I'll tell you if I start seeing small figures in red coats, Lisbon.") She certainly had to admit that he'd seemed quite comfortable with that baby in the case in Davis. But then, men holding babies always looked adorable...

A blur of blue past the dividing wall of the bullpen, a whoop and a female shriek.

A minute later, Lisbon storms back in, disordered papers in clenched fists.

"Where the _hell_ did he get a skateboard?"


	26. Blood and Whisky

Blood and Whisky

.

.

"_Lisbon?"_

"What do you want, Jane? I'm in the middle of watching something."

"_That's nice. I'm in a spot of difficulty here."_

"What did you do this time?" Horrible unease. She's already reaching for her shoes.

"_Why do you assume its always my fault?"_

"Because it usually is."

"_Well, this time I'm perfectly innocent. All a complete misunderstanding."_

"Jane..."

"_A large man in a bar took exception to the fact that his girlfriend preferred to talk to a man with decent personal hygiene. I wasn't remotely interested, but neither of them were listening to me."_

"oh god. Are you hurt?"

"_Meh. Nothing a band-aid and a few painkillers won't cure."_

"Where are you?"

"_I'm in a cell. Lovely company, but the food's dreadful. And I don't even have a harmonica."_

0000000000

Small town outside the city limits, and a block-built station house.

Looking even more out of place than usual amongst the human wreckage in the drunk tank. Someone has really hit him this time. Still traces of blood crusted on his nose, and a split lip that makes him wince as he tries to smile.

"Lisbon."

She turns a shoulder, looks at the deputy.

"That's him."

"You got lucky, pal." The man unlocks the door. "Your girlfriend paid your fine. Now beat it."

Jane waits to see Lisbon explode at the man. She doesn't. Intrigued, he bounces to his feet, winces and follows her out of the tiny jailhouse. She doesn't look at him, doesn't speak.

"Girlfriend?"

"It was easier than costing you your job." She says, grimly. "Taking the fine made it an infraction. No jail time and no record. But you owe me $200."

"You could have used your badge."

"Oh, very clever." Swings round and thumps him in the chest. "Every time you do something stupid, it goes on my record."

"...oh."

"Yeah, so I'd rather they assumed I was bailing out a drunken boyfriend, than bring the CBI into it."

Smell of stale whisky catches in her throat, peels back the years to a place she never wanted to be again. She knows exactly what constitutes a misdemeanour, a infraction. How much it costs. In money, in dignity.

"Of all the arrogant, dumbass things you've ever done to me, this is the cruellest, Jane."

He knows it.

His car looks even more out of place outside the one ratty motel.

"I took a room." he says. "I didn't intend to be driving back tonight."

She follows him, again grimly silent, unslings her bag onto the bed. About to make some smart, lewd comment, his voice dries up as she opens it.

Bottle of water, flask of coffee, painkillers, a small first aid kit. Hard-won knowledge.

Standing between his knees, face intent as she mops his nose. He swallows, clenches his fists.

"Did that hurt?"

"No, I'm fine."

Turns his eyes up from the view as she leans again. He hates her pity, her motherly concern. He wants the woman behind it. He wants to put his hands on her hips, tumble her into his lap. He hates himself.

"What were you doing, anyway?"

His eyes slide away. She takes hold of his chin, forces him to look at her, as she cleans.

"I was simply getting drunk." he says, finally. "Usually, I'm with Kerouac on the subject, but Malibu is too far to drive, and if I get hammered in the hotel, they'll chuck me out."

"Oh, Jane."

"I'm human. Sometimes I need to."

"It won't help."

She stares at him with wounded eyes. She thinks she knows his reasons. She doesn't. The biggest reason is standing in front of him. He was trying to become numb again. Body and mind.

"Well, you, of all people, would know."

She jerks back. When he feels helpless, he lashes out, uses his mouth and his mind to devastating effect. But she doesn't deserve that.

He'll take anger over pity any day. Anger is an emotion of equals. He wants her to hit him, scream at him. Punish him.

"I am going to assume that that is the whisky talking." The icy calm of her voice. The resigned anger of someone who has heard it all before.

Watches her walk away, straight-backed. The words jerk out of him.

"There's nobody else."

There is truly nobody else to come for him. No family, no close friends. Not even an agent, any more. They wouldn't even have known he was in trouble until he didn't turn up for work.

But that isn't why he called her.

She stops, but she doesn't turn.

"I'm...sorry."

Thread of a voice. Hating herself, she turns. He sits on the edge of the broken bed, broken man, head bowed. She touches her fingers to the back of his neck, and he shivers, knows exactly how lost he is.

"Don't ever do this to me again, Jane."

Don't make me your salvation, and then punish me for it.

He can't look at her. Aware of his cruelty, his stupidity. Aware of her.

Soft click of the door, and she's gone.

Guilt and pain, rage and shame, an all-too-human need at war within him.

The mental pain of his emotions awakening again. Physical pain of his body stirring. Rage at himself, rage at her, for smashing apart his carefully reconstructed world. Rage at the man, the monster, that has put him in this hell.

Guilt in him for every sunrise they never get to see, for wanting warm skin, a soft mouth, release. For his recklessness, his arrogance. His weakness.

He's faced the need. He has hands. But there is shame, not in the act, but in the raw desire; it is fantasy, not memory, that consumes him.

So he'd tried to blot it all out, in the time-honoured and traditional method.

And then, when he was in trouble, she was all he had wanted.

Just her, his unwilling guardian angel.

And the betrayal of it nearly destroys him again.

"I'm sorry." He whispers, softly. "I love you."

And he doesn't know which woman he speaks to.

Curls around his pain, and cries.


	27. Blood and Whisky II

.

.

Blood and Whisky II

.

.

She looks tired this morning. (Crying until the early hours will do that to a person.) Drags her hair back, applies make-up with a firm, angry hand.

Jane is nothing like her father. He's an idiot, not an alcoholic. He has a hell of a lot of other problems, but drinking is not one of them. Now that her initial rage and shock have faded, she can assess the situation.

What really scared her was that automatic packing of 'The Bag'. Late night call from a drunk tank, and the good schoolgirl had resurfaced. The dutiful daughter who had bailed Daddy out so many times, tried to keep the boys tidy for school, tried to make sure that he had his bloody breath mints before he went to the office. Voice firm as she tells another lie to the secretary, the garage, the store.

Five bloody years. Her teens, gone. And her father, dead of a heart attack at forty six. Community college, part-time job, and bargaining with the bank, please don't let me cry like a victim. Niall, turning down college to work full-time, and such a row with him, but the green wasn't there, and two inadequate wages just about kept them afloat, kept Child Services from taking Sean. She was barely legally an adult, and she'd lived a lifetime by then.

She still doesn't know what had prompted her drift into law enforcement. It isn't until after she has been accepted into the program, that she turns out the attic, finds her maternal grandfather's picture, the uniform. A Chicago cop.

She'd followed a man across the country, eventually. Fell out of love with him, but in love with California. Offered a position in the Bureau, trades in San Francisco for Sacramento, her blues for a more subtle uniform. Dresses for practicality, success in a man's world. She has always been serious about her career. She gets a hard satisfaction from what she does. It is how she defines herself, her chosen path, it isn't just a job, something she can switch off. And no part of her life-plan had included becoming keeper to a beautiful lunatic. (certainly no part of her plan to ever love him.) He's broken wreckage on which her life could founder.

(listen to yourself, woman. you ran out into the night to rescue him as soon as he called.)

Because there is no-one else. That piece of truth torn from him. And that scares her, too. The responsibility of it.

Self-preservation says to stay the hell away from him. Damaged and grieving, he's an accident waiting to happen. And he will take others with him, plans to.

She's been involved with a married man before. It ended...badly. She's not cut out to be second-best, doesn't take kindly to the thought of comparisons. And how do you begin to compete with a ghost?

Seems she's spent her whole damn life picking up after the menfolk. Picking herself up, as they went on or back or just some damn place else. Off to college, into a bottle, creeping home with the stink of sin of them, or to some dark cold place where they could dance with the dead.

She's no saint. Just a tired woman in her mid-thirties. Falling in love with the wrong man. So how does this make her any different to a million others?

She deliberately takes time over her breakfast. Wonders whether to clean her bathroom. Physical hard work is soothing. But she sits, irresolute, until the tap at her door tells her exactly what she's been waiting for.

She's even a little surprised he's bothered to knock. He's no respecter of boundaries.

Showered, shaved, blessedly clean clothes, holding the bag in his hands. Only the slightest signs of damage on his face today, lip and a puffiness under one eye.

0000000000

Waking, sober and sore, more than stale alcohol on his tongue had sickened him. He knows that one day he will find out the point past which Lisbon will not go. Knows, cold terror, how very near he'd come to that.

He hadn't thought. He'd been lost and lonely and drunk and hurting, and he'd called her to make it all better. Hadn't thought what a late night phone call from the drunk tank might mean to her. If he had, he'd have phoned Cho or Rigsby. But if he'd been in a state of mind to make that sort of decision, he wouldn't have been wrecked in some rathole bar in the first place.

Critical truth in the bottom of a glass. He had wanted her. And he had known that she would come for him.

Paradox. He's been alone for so much of his life, and he's really not very good at it.

He'd been a son, a disciple. A prop in the act. (Doesn't really remember his mother, lost at the age of six, and his father was never one for a straight story. Even now, he doesn't know where she's buried.) Class joker, troublemaker, drinking in the applause. Falling in with travelling folk, all he knows. Drifted west, ended up on the beach, everyone's good buddy. Grifting the tourists, drawn into the New Age vortex, until the strange alchemy of his past, the media and a natural talent for showmanship fetch him up on the stage, faking the dead.

Met his wife at the Lilith Fair. His agent represented another act on the bill, and he'd gone along to mingle. Pretty woman at a piano, and he'd been captivated. Everything he wasn't, money and class. Her family had hated him, flashy upstart, always known he was trouble, and when he justified them, they took her back, reclaimed her. He was in no condition to even know.

Widower. He hates the word. He's too young for it.

There isn't even a word for a father who has buried his child.

So, a new and fragile mask to face the world. Getting an 'in' at the CBI had been laughably easy. Detective, con-man, hunter – all required patience, observation. He'd never deluded himself that he was doing good before, but he could still transmute his rage into something resembling remorse.

He's been so busy mourning the family that he lost, that he's nearly overlooked the new family he's gained.

Cho. Who never got that thousand yard stare behind a desk.

Rigsby. Cop all through, one of the good guys, big tough man with a soft spot.

Grace. Sweet, trusting Grace, with her soft heart and high principles.

And Lisbon. Lisbon, who was neither sweet nor trusting, who would yet let him push beyond all reasonable boundaries. What did she want from him, this tough, pretty little woman?

(What does he want from her?)

They put their careers, their lives, on the line to save him from himself. However crazy he gets, they follow him. Not out of blind loyalty, but because they care. So someone can clean up after him, mop the blood off his nose. Damage control.

Sitting in that Tijuana motel room with the sick stench of failure hung about him, Lisbon had leant over - Lisbon, who didn't _do_ touching - put her hand out, so lightly, and said 'We'll get him."

We. Identifying herself with him, his failure, his goal. They had a different end in mind, but that would be dealt with. Someday.

Today, he has to fix things. He's tired, and ashamed, and he can't stay away.

00000000000

She's been crying. He's made her cry. If he wanted to be punished, he has it now.

Silently, wordlessly, she looks at him. She doesn't step back. But she doesn't close the door.

"I can't stand the smell of cheap cigars." he says quietly. "The expensive ones...that meant a good take. My father was a charming bastard most of the time, and just a bastard for the rest."

Little pieces of the truth are all he has to offer in the way of apology, the only coin. She can't understand how hard it is for him, but this is his trust, pieces of himself given into her keeping.

"It's not a competition." She says softly. "You complete fucking idiot."

He realizes, against all hope and all expectation, that he is going to be forgiven. Eventually. She takes the bag from him, dumps it carelessly in her hall.

"We have to go to work." Critical appraisal. "You still look like hell."

A weak shadow of his usual gorgeous grin.

"I could say that you did it?"

"If you _ever_ pull shit like that again, I will." Forefinger above his heart, sharp. "I mean it. Never. Again."

He wants to put his arms around her, promise her anything. But he won't. She wouldn't believe him. Surprises the hell out of him, when one small, strong hand nudges up under his chin, pushes his head up to look at her.

"Do stop blocking punches with your face. However stupid and irritating it is, I'm getting used to having it around."

She doesn't trust him not to get himself killed, and every part of her being tells her to step away, run away. She's angry with him, concerned for him, and she's still touching him. It's all a mess.

He's her mess.

If someone has to look after him, it might as well be her. She has practice.

If her job defines her, then so be it. She's in charge, den mother to her little pack. And this lone wolf had best get with the program.

A real smile, his wicked, beautiful smile. He reaches into his pocket, and she frowns.

"If you _dare _give me one of those damn frogs..."

"Two hundred dollars." He holds the bills. "I can fold them if you like."

"One day, you'll have to show me how to do that." Nips the money out of his fingers.

She locks her door, sets off down the corridor at a clip.

Jane follows after her. In his other pocket, his hand relaxes around the key she hasn't asked him to return.


	28. Rouge Noir

Rouge Noir

.

.

Sound of the key in the door.

"You'll have to let yourself in." she calls, sarcastically. (Of course, she could put the chain on. They both know that.)

"Such a gracious welcome..."

She's painting her toenails. Not something she does regularly, but it's summer, she's off duty and she can wear sandals, so why not?

She gets one look at his face, before he dives into the bathroom.

Normally, he can cope. But to see Lisbon's pale, pretty feet daubed with that dark blood colour...

Shaking, shocked and sick. Perhaps, one day, he'll be able to come to terms with these things that rip out of nowhere.

_...His wife had never painted her nails; she'd done ballet as a child, and disliked her feet, which showed it. Instantly recognisable..._

Sound of the door, and he stands, irresolute, still rather white.

There's a strong smell of acetone - she's wiped her feet clean. (Afterthought, she drops the bottle in the bin, too. She doubts she could ever wear that colour again, now, without feeling sick herself.)

He rarely has to explain himself to her. He's not sure that he could at this moment.

Gently, she pushes his shoulder until he sits, busies herself making him tea. The warmth revives him, and he holds the mug as if it is a lifeline. He seems to spend his life these days embarrassing himself in front of this woman.

"I didn't realize..."

"You shouldn't have to." His voice, a little raw. "I should go."

He's in no condition to cook. She doesn't think he's in any condition to drive, yet, either.

"Don't worry, we'll just have take-out tonight." she says.

His ostensible reason for being there, gone. He's been busted, and she's let him know that she knows. Which makes her busted, too.

The line is still there. But it's becoming increasingly blurred.

Oh, well, she can have a friend over. Nothing in the regulations about that. And she'll be damned if she'll turn him out with whatever pictures he has in his head at the moment. Gives him a crooked little grin.

"Thai okay with you?"

"Okay. But I get to choose the movie." It's a shadow of his usual smile, but warm, still cheeky.

She sighs with what she knows is fond resignation. And if sitting through him jeering at 'Ocean's Eleven' is what it takes, then so be it.


	29. Three Minute Warning

_Chanoyu: Japanese - 'Hot Water for Tea', a formal tea ceremony_

_._

_._

Three Minute Warning

.

.

"Uh-oh." Van Pelt says quietly.

"What?" Rigsby looks up. Cho glances round, too.

Van Pelt jerks her head. Lisbon is fixing herself a coffee, still reading her paperwork. Then she fishes a teabag out of a cup.

"Uh-oh." They all know how bloody-minded and fussy Jane is with his tea. Rigsby has announced his intention of cutting off fingers before ever trying it again. Cho flatly refuses. Covert and fascinated eyes watch the cup as it is deposited by the couch, to the accompaniment of a gentle kick. A languid arm reaches out, pulls the cup out of sight. There is a pause, full of severally held breath.

"Thank you."

"Welcome."

(Three jaws drop in unison.)

Hand comes up with a sheet of paper. She exchanges it for one of her own, and carries on towards her office, sipping her own drink.

"Boss?" Cho manages.

"What? Oh." She grins. "If _I_ make him tea, it's either drink it or wear it."

Jane takes a sip of his perfectly-made cup of tea, and smiles.

Dash of milk in the cup. Fresh water, freshly boiled, tea bag in for three minutes only, dunked, not crushed with a spoon. She is trying to break him of the milky tea-bag trick, though; he has a horrible habit of leaving them on the drainer by the sink, and they make the kitchen smell.

Besides, if they think he's fussy, they have never tried to make that woman scrambled eggs.


	30. Depth Charge

-this is a very odd little idea that came to me, based on that conversation from 'Bloodshot', where Jane tells Van Pelt that she is shut-down and emotionally repressed because of some long-buried trauma-

.

.

Depth Charge

.

.

.

Van Pelt rubs her eyes wearily. Cases involving children always hit them hard. This isn't the first, and sadly, it won't be the last. Something in this one is riding her deeper than usual, though, and she read and re-reads her notes, searching for whatever elusive fragment hides. It's late, and dark, and quiet, and there is no way she can sleep while this is bugging her, even though it feels like her eyes are going to pop.

A glass of water and two aspirin appear on her desk.

"I can count the pulse in your forehead from over on the couch." Jane says.

"I'm already at the max dosage." She admits. "But thank you."

"Then you should go home."

Shakes her head, winces, determined.

"This needs to be finished."

"But not at the expense of your eyesight."

Sets her jaw. Jane sighs. Van Pelt models herself on Lisbon, and this seems to extend to the damn woman's stubbornness. Tries another tack.

"Would you trust me?"

Wary dark eyes, but he gives her a small smile that looks sincere. She manages a half-nod.

A cool hand holds her forehead, and a thumb finds a knot of pain at the base of her skull. She gasps.

"Relax. Just lean into my palm, let it take the weight..."

"I would never have thought of you as doing a laying on of hands." As soon as she's said it, she feels the tension in him. "I'm sorry, have I said..."

"It's nothing." A little too quick. Smooths his voice out. "This is just a form of acupressure."

"Like reflexology?"

"Yes. But if Rigsby caught me giving you a foot-rub, he'd probably throw me out of the window."

"If Lisbon caught you giving me a foot-rub, _she'd_ probably throw you out of the window." she snaps back, and there's a startled and appreciative chuckle behind her. "Oh, I..."

"Don't ruin it by apologising." Strong fingers continue to punish the pain away. "But that's a very interesting thing to say. I'm intrigued."

She keeps silent, and he laughs again. This is a little weird, but it's undeniably effective.

What Van Pelt does not realize, but Jane does, is that Lisbon herself has come out of her office, and is standing by the divider. His quick shake of the head has been enough to halt the gathering storm, and now she hovers, watchful.

"This case has really got to you. More so than normal." Statements, not questions. "There's something about it that reminds you of something, and you can't quite pin it down. But it's there. All you have to do is to relax, and it will come to you..."

"Are you going to hypnotize it out of me?" She growls.

"Do you want me to?" It's a serious question. Thumb stills. She draws a deep breath through her nose.

"...I...don't know."

Thumb moves again.

"We can just talk. Besides, if Lisbon found out, she really would chuck me through a window."

Lisbon narrows her eyes at him. Watches Jane's hands. Rarely clumsy, they weave in fluid gestures, swift, clever, outer reflection of his mind. Now, they are gentle, capable, fingers moving on Grace's skull. He quirks a little smile, and continues to look at her, as he speaks to Grace.

"I know you don't like to open up to people. When you come from a large family, privacy is important. Girls like to keep secrets, far more than boys do. Girls tell each other things, friends tell each other things..."

Pieces come together, and her eyes fly open. Jane takes his hands away.

"Singing."

It was what she couldn't pin down. That sense of wrongness, a community closed against the idea that a man of god could do such things...At the keyboard, furious intensity. Pulling up lists of effects, transcripts from the parents...

"Both the girls – they were in a choir. Did anyone ask what church the families attend?" The lapsed Catholic and the atheist stare at each other. Machine spits up a map. "Because you have a registered sex offender living three blocks from St. Michaels."

They look at the map. He hadn't come up on the search before, because he lives outside of the zone of habitation. But not outside of the reach of a family car taking a couple of small girls to choir practice.

Then Lisbon is wheeling away, snapping orders into her phone. Van Pelt stares after her, looks up at Jane.

"Was she...?"

"Watching that I didn't put the hex on you." He waggles his fingers. "Headache all gone?"

"Yes."

"Local PD are on their way to pick him up." Lisbon looks at Van Pelt. "Are you okay?"

"I think so."

But she definitely feels shaky.

"Jane, go make tea." Voice brooks no argument.

It is a little awkward. Van Pelt is embarrassed.

"That...probably looked a bit...weird."

"Jane has his uses."

"I was five years old. Sunday school." She wonder if Lisbon is about to cut her off with a brisk reminder about personal revelations, but she merely nods, looking suddenly a little sick. Van Pelt hurries on, words spilling. "It...nothing ever happened to me. But my best friend, Mercy...It's like a big piece of my past just came into focus. Things I knew, but didn't understand. We moved away shortly afterwards, and it never got spoken of. I thought it was my fault." Rubbing her arms, look of slight surprise on her face. "My mother wouldn't let me go to the swimming pool on my own for years afterwards. And I was never supposed to get undressed in front of other people."

An intensely religious upbringing, and parental protectiveness goaded into overdrive.

She blinks, wipes her eyes. "Wow, that's...strange. How do you just forget something like that?"

"Kids remember all sorts of stuff. But they rarely tell anyone." Lisbon slants a glance. "It takes a nosy man with no principles to go digging it out."

"I resent that." Jane hands Van Pelt the tea, watches her fold overly careful hands round the cup. He and Lisbon exchange looks over her bent head. "I have some principles."

"Right." Lisbon gives Van Pelt's shoulder an awkward pat. "You should go home."

"It will take a few days for all that to settle in your mind." Jane warns her. "That's a really deep memory you just pulled up."

"If you need to talk to someone..." Lisbon says. Van Pelt shakes her head, not quite denial.

With one last indecisive look, Lisbon walks off towards the door. Jane follows, and she tips her chin.

"What the hell was that?"

"Acupressure. She was going to have an aneurysm otherwise." He grins. "I'm better than aspirin."

"Oh, you're definitely a pill." Worry in her eyes. "Is she going to be okay?"

"In a few days. Probably better than she was, now she's not got that locked up in her head." Looks back at her, for once serious. "She's strong. She won't come to pieces on you."

"I hope not. I don't feel like explaining to Minelli that you broke one of my agents." She sighs, and her face hardens. "Well, we'd best go see if this sick bastard is our particular sick bastard."

Jane's own face, for one instant, implacable and dangerous, his smile completely without humour.

"It will be a pleasure."


	31. Bay City Blues

-A/N I've always been a fan of, let's call them 'temporal echoes', shall we? This is post 'Green Eyes', pre-finale.

.

.

Bay City Blues

.

.

Not only are they in San Francisco, but they are in the same precinct where Lisbon started out as a detective. They have a body, though, and the prospect of the usual head-butting with the local force to get through. What has just shouldered into the room looks like something that would definitely take a head-butting in his stride.

In fact, the detective looks like the kind of guy who would happily eat a puppy sandwich. Strains the shoulders of his shabby jacket, gun conspicuous as his scowl.

"Fuckit, I thought they was sending a proper agent, not a runt."

A variety of outraged responses on the faces of the team. Lisbon stalks across the room to stand in front of him.

Then she slaps him in the chest, and grins.

"Moseley, you asshole. When did they kick you out of blues?"

"Rainer retired. I got his gig." He's grinning now. It's not a huge improvement on the scowl.

"Is Rainer okay?" She remembers him. Slightly better with authority than Jane. But only relatively speaking.

"Hell, yeah. He bailed up country to run a dude ranch, with some little dancer he met."(*)

"Ah, sweet...Hang on, you got his gig?"

"Someone's got to keep the stone-killer in line."

"Jesus, man. _ Allen_ gets to put up with you?"

"Heh." He sticks his head out the door, and bellows. "Allen, you gotta see what they sent us this time."

Detective Venetia Allen is tall, black and beautiful. She also looks like she could kill you and make you like it. Sharp suited contrast to Moseley, same cold-eyes scowl. Until she sees Lisbon.

"Tee?" Visibly relaxes. "Ah, hey, this is gonna make life a whole lot easier."

"Vee." They actually hug. "Who'd you piss off to get the ape-thing?"

"The DA. God. The Sheriff. Who knows?" She shrugs. "He's not so bad." A sudden rich smile. "You should see him with Connor junior."

Moseley scuffs, suddenly embarrassed.

"He's a good kid." Growls. "Anyhow, we playing old-home week here, or are we solving crime?"

"Point." Allen pulls herself back into work. "So, we got the usual. Dead guy. Political connections. What you brought to work with?"

The menfolk are experiencing fear. There's something about Allen that makes them feel that any sudden movement could be their last. Cho is fighting the urge to come to attention and salute. Their own particular scary boss-lady points.

"Agents Rigsby, Cho, Van Pelt. Patrick Jane."

Allen looks at them a beat.

"Damn." She says flatly. "Yours are prettier."

"I'll say." Moseley leers cheerfully at Van Pelt, who looks back with a faint horror.

"Oh, Moseley's happily married." Jane grins. "He just keeps up the act, because he doesn't want anyone to know he's gone soft."

Moseley looks freaked out. Allen raises an eyebrow. Lisbon sighs.

"Jane, don't show off." Looks at Allen with amused disbelief. "Someone married him?"

Hint of that smile again.

"You got time to catch up later, girl? If Connor finds you've been through, and you don't call by, he's gonna sulk for a week."

_(*) for those who wish to know – Rainer has a bad history with women. There was a talk show diva with commitment issues, a really crazy woman from an ad agency and some scary dominatrix who moved out to Vegas. Luckily, he met a cute little ballerina. Her brother is a surgeon, and anytime he goes to visit them on the ranch, Rainer's head stable girl likes to pull him into a loose-box..._

00000000000

With both Rigsby and Moseley in the room, it is a bit like sharing space with a couple of monster trucks. They seem to be bonding happily enough over ballistics, though, and with Van Pelt off the scene, the whiff of testosterone subsides to manageable. The two women actually find the time to grab some air, prop outside the building.

Jane strolls out, and props beside them.

"I pointed out what I could, but Moseley seems a little shy of me."

"Did you try and read his mind?" Lisbon grimaces. "Because nobody needs to know what Moseley is thinking."

"Oh, he's changed." Allen says. "Your man here got it right."

"Someone really married him? Is she crazy?" Lisbon doesn't normally gossip on work-time, but this is _Moseley_.

"No. See, we all know that Moseley has less culture than yoghurt, right? Well, we get this call out, someplace down the arts district, and one of the witnesses runs a small store, books and coffee. We don't think nothing of it, 'til three weeks later and Herrera catches him reading. Austen." She draws the final word out.

"No." Lisbon hoots.

"Lisbon likes Austen." Jane rolls his eyes. "Particularly the bit with Colin Firth."

"I was appreciating the adaption of a great work of literature."

"Yeah, right." Turns to Allen. "This is from a woman who _paid money_ for a Vin Diesel dvd."

She cringes, shoves him.

"Go away, Jane. Before I hurt you."

He grins, unabashed. And a slightly wild-eyed Moseley leans out of an upper window.

"Allen, we got the bullets. They was right where he said they was going to be."

00000000000

Later, in the evening, Lisbon sits back in the booth of the restaurant, and looks across at her old friend.

"Damn, Vee, how long has it been?"

"Too long. Now, we got time before Connor gets here, so tell me _all_ the nasty details."

"About?"

"About that deadly handsome devil you got with you."

Lisbon winces, laughs.

"What makes you think there's anything to tell?"

"Well, I don't know him. But I do know you. Man was being a royal pain in the butt all the day. And you ain't killed him yet, so..." Raises her eyebrows, a full, rich smile. "Tell."

"It's complicated..."

"As in 'I work with him' complicated? Or 'he's married' complicated?"

"As in 'he's a widower who lost his family in a really bad way, and he's not over it' complicated. Plus, yeah, working with him doesn't help."

"He didn't look like he was having much of a problem."

"You have no idea." Realizes what she's on the verge of admitting, and screws her eyes up, groans. "Oh, crap, yeah, he's hot as hell, and I mustn't touch."

"What I could see, he's following you like a puppy dog."

"The kind that needs a muzzle, maybe." She laughs, but not happily. "I just don't think it's something we even need to get into, because it can't happen."

"Oh, never say never, Tee..."

"Hey! Hot babes at two o'clock!"

A skinny blond man in a horrible shirt and a baby sling, weaving through the startled diners and waving delightedly. Venetia looks at him, rueful grin and suddenly soft eyes.

"...Because there is nothin' you can tell me about falling in love with a crazy white guy, remember?"

00000000000

It isn't quite coincidence that brings him here. He can't help himself. The rest of the team are talking shop with some of the younger cops, a noisy, cheery party in the bar. He's not one of them, never really will be, and tonight (without her there) he doesn't feel like being the centre of attention. He knows the city, lets his feet carry him.

Watches through the glass, fingertips resting, and knows how pathetic he must look. But there is Lisbon, her face alight with startled laughter as she receives a lapful of wriggly two year old. (Connor junior, a coffee-skinned little heartbreaker with his father's sunny disposition and the promise of his mother's looks.)

He has no place to be, but here in the dark, looking in at love and laughter and family, all the things he's lost and all the things he can't have.

The sight of Connor senior menacing the bread rolls with his son's toys to make him laugh hurts too much. Blind for one instant.

"Hey, man, are you okay?" Stranger's voice, a kindly concerned young couple. He finds a smile, the right words and pulls himself together, away. He couldn't stand the humiliation if she saw him, either her anger, or her pity.

00000000000

Rigsby, manoeuvring into the room, anxious eyes on an overly-full tray. Van Pelt springs to get the door. Jane rescues the tray, bestows the cups with a flourish.

"So, how was your girl's night out?" he asks, brightly.

"Lovely."

"If your idea of fun is being poked in the eye with a plastic toy, and spit up on." Allen says dryly.

"The utterly gorgeous Connor junior. He's two." Lisbon clarifies. Van Pelt ventures a grin, shakes her head.

"Oh, I had some college dates like that."

"Honey, Connor senior ain't much better." Allen tells her.

The women snigger. Lisbon is watching Jane out of the corner of her eye. He takes a sip from his cup, winces, but continues drinking. A bad sign.

Jane is being a little too bright and cheerful today. She knows that that means he had a bad night, and didn't sleep. She hopes they clear this case soon, so she can let him sleep in the car on the drive back, just for a few hours.

They haven't been alone much since that strange evening he gave her a lift home (rescued her.) She finds she rather misses him around in her apartment, but knows quite how dangerous that could be now. There's an extra level to their usual banter, now, a slight restraint. They still work well together, but she feels the need to remind him of her position occasionally, and he seems to take an extra delight in goading her.

Jane hadn't slept. He'd walked for a few hours, until it started to become a really stupid idea. If he got himself mugged and stabbed in some back alley, Lisbon would probably raise him from the dead, just so that she could kill him herself for the embarrassment he'd caused her. So he'd trailed back to the hotel, blinked wearily at his door. Another lonely room in another city. Does it really matter where he is? Sitting in a bed that's too wide, too cold, he'd leant back against the wall. Put his fingertips to it. A width of panelling, and a world between them. He knows that she is concerned for him this morning, but the shame of having actually followed her, the pain of loss and need, is too raw in him still.

Cho watches Allen watching Lisbon and Jane _not_ watching each other. She gives him a flinty look. Then one eyebrow rises slightly. He gives minute shrug, jerk of his chin.

Ever since her abortive date with the ATF guy, he's been waiting for Lisbon to drop on him. He'd pressed the next number on his speed-dial without thought, but you couldn't say 'wrong number' to Jane. The explanation would be far worse than the plain truth. Teasing Rigsby and, by extension, Van Pelt – that's...allowed. The situation there is acknowledged. Normal.

Whatever is going on, or not, between the Boss and Jane is none of those things. Rigsby is brave enough, or dumb enough, to have ventured a comment or two. But Cho's honest policy is 'don't ask, don't tell, don't want to know.'

So they all step around the elephant in the room. Wishing things were different, or pretending that they are.


	32. Beachcombing

-A tag to 'Red Tide'. FiveRoses accused me of being obsessed with the idea of a young, semi-naked surfing Jane. To which I say 'Hell,yes.' Who's with me?-

.

.

Beachcombing

.

.

Sand under his bare feet, shedding the armour of his vest, his jacket. A couple of skinny kids toting longboards lope by, and suddenly, time turns back.

A life-time ago. The boys. Scud, Dumper, Trick and Toorude. Bonfires on the beach, eyeing up the girls...sweet times. They'd all been young and poor, hanging out in a dive of a house near the beach, up to catch the early waves, dawn patrol. Jobs waiting bar, bricklaying, flipping burgers, whatever gave them a few bucks for rent and beer and gas. He'd had the Chevy, then, his beloved rusty heap, and they'd all pile the boards in, head out to wherever.

Oh, that house had been vile. Warped wood and weird smells. But it was a place to sleep, wax the planks. The day the couch finally collapsed, and they found the fossilised pizzas under it. Erratic plumbing, but as long as the outside hose worked, it was cool. When the fridge broke, they filled the bath with ice lifted from the local motel, stored the beer there. Dumper had a job flipping burgers for a while, and he used to leave the back door unlatched, so they would sneak into the employee's restroom. Man, they lived on sell-by-date crap for weeks, then. Toorude getting them all chucked out of the laundromat after he decided to take off _all_ his clothes to wash them. (If they just took off their shirts, they usually got to stay.) Getting chucked out of places because of Toorude was fairly standard, though. Man was an animal. Puppy-dog eyes and the sense of a housebrick. Frantic chase over a series of backyard fences, because some girl's father had come home early, found a very private party happening in the pool. Him and Scud getting the crap beaten out of them when he got too cocky about beating the locals at poker, some place down near the border. Waking up in the aftermath of a party, with some girl whose name he couldn't remember. Still can't, but she had some major ink-work, dragon all down her back and leg. Dumper dropping something he'd bought off some random guy on the boardwalk, and climbing up on the roof to wave at the aliens. It had taken til four in the morning to talk him down, and Toorude was pissed because he'd taken the lot. A three-day chess game with Scud, talking about everything and nothing.

The guy had been his best fucking friend, and he can't remember his real name.

He'd got a gig, a little street magic stunt, started to hang out with some of the New Age types that mingled on the edges of the surf crowd. Poker skills turned to tarot reading, unconscious parody of his father in his patter. He's fairly sure in hindsight that it was his looks rather than his actual talent that first caught the eye of some agent on the prowl, but he found himself with some club slots, the beginnings of a career. He had to wear a tie.

First time he wore his suit in the house, and the guys nearly died laughing. He sure as hell wasn't going to sit on the damn couch in it. Toorude had said "You look like a fucking Mormon, dude." But it got him into some parties. His agent showed him off like some prize poodle. She'd wanted more than a percentage from him, though, and he'd bailed, upgraded agents to a slick and suited landshark who moved in some glitzy showbiz circles. Took him to fund-raisers to mingle.

He'd seen – money, class, acceptance, belonging. Big houses in the Hills. Her.

Some guy is trying to teach his girlfriend. She wobbles off the board, falls on him and they both go down in the surf, her shriek and his laughter.

She didn't surf. Her family had had a yacht.

Remembers the stark disbelief in Scud's face when he'd offered to sell his board. Because you just didn't _do_ that, man. But Scud was the real deal, lived to ride. He didn't need or want anything but the sweet thrill of getting tubed. Bailed on the house, and this parting hurt. Had to be the longest he'd been in one place in his entire life. But he was getting out, getting on, getting ahead. The guys were great, but you couldn't ask her to come and sit on the busted couch and eat cold pizza. Her family's idea of take-out was Wolfgang Puck.

He'd never liked rich people much. Even when he became one. Some flashy stage magician who'd barely finished high school was very far from the Ivy League captain of industry her family had in mind. But he'd won. And then there was the grand-daughter.

He'd done it. The family, the house, the career. All the things real people had. Riding high.

And then he'd ridden the wave too far. Wiped out.

So now he's walking down the beach, older, sadder, maybe wiser. Looks at the swell.

Wonders if he ever dare go back in again. Find another wave.

A very slight grin ghosts over his mouth. Wonders if Lisbon has ever tried falling off a board.


	33. Deep Blue Something

-A nod to Tromana's 'patience' in 'Scarlet Shorts'. And my version of why Rigsby might have got himself hurt as a kid re 'Russet Potatoes'-

.

.

Deep Blue Something

.

.

Late in the evening, the offices closing down. Jane has pulled a couple of cartons over in front of his couch, set the chess board up, and is frowning over it. Play against yourself, and you always lose.

Rigsby passes by, tilts his head. Watches for a moment as Jane's fingers hover over a knight, draw back.

"You could try the Cifuentes variant." he says.

Jane stares at him. And surprise melts into glee.

"You play?"

"Not for years." Rigsby ducks his head, suddenly uncomfortable. "I'm kinda rusty."

Jane is already resetting the board, grabbing for a chair.

"Show me what you got, big man."

An hour later, and Jane's usual smart-ass grin has been replaced with a small rueful smile of pure pleasure. He's having to dig deep here, or he's going to get his ass handed to him. If this is rusty, then god help him when Rigsby gets his game on.

Little pieces lost in Rigbsy's hands, that little frown of concentration, chin jutting. He might look like he's having trouble tying his shoes, but he's chasing Jane down over the board.

Before he got his contacts, filled out through the shoulders, he'd been the blundering, gawky, shy kid, trying to keep his head down. Half a head taller than anyone else, even then, so that had been a vain hope. His father, his brothers, telling him to 'man up', try out for proper sports, his mother sighing over another ripped jacket. Once he hit fifteen, grew up and out, size and speed to match, made the football team, he started to leave the chess club behind, and the guys that used to beat on him wanted to be his buddies. By the time he got to college, nobody expected him to play anything more complicated than drinking games, be the big dumb jock. But here, in the quiet dark of the office after hours, it's coming back.

"I was told to deliver this to some guys up here. Fischer and Kasparov?"

Rigsby snorts with startled laughter. Jane grins. He'd been so caught up in the game, he didn't even know the wretched woman was creeping up on them. Lisbon puts the pizza down, and curls up on the end of the couch, feet under her.

It looks like White might actually be losing. And watching that happen would be worth an extra dose of cheese and grease.


	34. Pretty in Pink

-Just me, being wrong in the head, as usual-

.

.

Pretty in Pink

.

.

Jane can, and will, flirt with just about any woman around. But there are times when a man has to flee, for the sake of his sanity and his skin.

One such occasion – arriving through Lisbon's front door to find a party in progress. Drunken women. Excitable women. Drunken, excitable women dancing to 80's pop. A roomful of Lisbon's girlfriends, one of whom lurches towards him, slurring happily,

"Tez, you got us a stripper!"

_That_ will make a man run.

Lisbon has had just enough red wine to find this hysterical. She will treasure that look of stark terror for some time to come. That will teach him to just turn up, stroll in without knocking.

She could almost regret his turn of speed. She's seen him in swimming trunks, after all, and he has a lovely body. But she doesn't want to share. Uh-uh. He's _her_ consultant. Blinks owlishly at her glass.

Oh dear.

00000000000

Still feeling a little fragile next morning, and with the feeling that she might have had some...interesting dreams. Takes her sunglasses off before she gets up to the office. Van Pelt greets her with a smile.

"Morning, Boss. How did Danni's hen party go?"

"Jane crashed it, and got mistaken for the stripper."

Cho spits his coffee. Rigsby guffaws. Van Pelt hoots, then looks across at Jane and goes an interesting shade of red. Jane, sinking down on the couch and putting his book of puzzles over his face, misses that.

"He _didn't_..."

"No." Lisbon is enjoying this, the evil, evil woman. "He got scared and ran."

"A roomful of loud drunken women wanted to tear my shirt off." says a reproachful voice. "You'd have been scared, too. Believe me."

("What was he doing at Lisbon's?" Cho mouths to Rigsby. Rigsby shrugs, grins, looks down hastily.)

Actually, Lisbon feels rather guilty for mentioning it. Walks over and kicks the end of the couch.

Jane eyes her warily over the top of his book. She bites her lip.

"I'm sorry about Carmen."

"_I'm_ sorry about Carmen." His eyes widen. "I thought she was going to eat me."

"She'd had a whole bottle of wine by then." She soothes. "She'd have jumped at anything going."

He sits up, looks insulted, and she can't stop the grin any more.

"Seriously, Lisbon, I'm mentally scarred." Tilts a cheeky glance. "If you'd _wanted_ to see me with my clothes off..."

"I'll buy you a thong." She snips, dismissive.

(empty roadside, rather too much of his chest on display, her hands on his back)

They both blink. Lisbon shakes herself, and marches off to her office. Jane busies himself with a puzzle, a little flushed along the cheekbones.

The team keep very quiet. Mostly because they know if they look at each other, hysteria will break out.

Jane shivers slightly, as his mind replays the feel of her hands on him. Not for the first time. They haven't mentioned it, but he knows that she thinks about it, too.

She is supposed to be concentrating on a hideously dull budgetary plan. Not imagining...blinks again. That. It's a horrible thing, to feel relieved when a call comes in, and she can move into full-on action mode.

"Road trip. We have a suspected kidnapping near Lodi that smells bad..."

Jane is also relieved. He's made a mistake somewhere in the sudoku, and his mind is too scrambled to work out where. And he is very aware of the suppressed humour in the room, even as the jobs are divided up.

"You taking the Chippendale, Boss?" Rigsby can't resist it. Van Pelt sniggers. Cho winces. Amusement at Jane's expense has a horrible habit of coming back to bite you in the ass.

"I have never taken my clothes off for money." Jane considers it. "I did nearly get arrested for indecent exposure in my early twenties, though." Grins at Lisbon. "Let me drive today, and I'll tell you all about it."

Lisbon swings the keys from her fingers, snatches them back.

"Er...No." He'll tell her anyway. She knows that grin.

"Oh, but you really want to hear this..." Following after her.

Pops his head back round the divider.

"And, Van Pelt. Food for thought. Rigsby used to be a fireman. Bet he still has his uniform." Moves his eyebrows suggestively, and disappears.

Cho puts his head down on his desk, and groans.


	35. The Man Comes Around

-Cho's backstory, according to the AnJLverse-

.

.

The Man Comes Around

.

.

He'd been extremely stupid as a teen.

He'd drifted in with some of the wilder kids in the neighbourhood, idiot stuff – shoplifting, vandalism, a group of swaggering children who thought they were big men. Rows with his family, who wanted him to study, to be better than that. But he didn't want the job in the shop, the quiet family evenings, the old worn-out things of another culture.

Then, one day at the mall, they got into it with a couple of rival gangbangers, and a concerned citizen got involved. Scattered and ran, but the slowest of them got grabbed, panicked and stuck a knife into the concerned citizen's arm.

The concerned citizen was a young Marine on leave. So Kimball Cho ended up out cold on the mall floor, then in custody, and then sentenced to a term in juvenile detention...

- He's never been so scared in his entire life. Weeks of fear and confusion, alone and with too much time to think and regret. Then,

"You got a visitor."

Which was a surprise. He had shamed himself, shamed his family, and they had pretty much disowned him. One sorrowful letter from his mother, which made him cry after lights out, silent.

The man in the room was medium height, medium build, silver-brown hair in a military cut. And the coldest, scariest eyes Cho has ever seen. Not a word. He just looked. The look said 'I know who you are. I know what you are. And I am not impressed.'

Cho stares back. He feels small and worthless and stupid and terrified.

"I came to see what kind of dumb punk put one of my Marines in hospital." The man says, finally.

"Is he going to be okay?" First words he'd spoken for days, his voice rusty. And he'd really wanted to know. He'd never meant to hurt anyone.

The corners of the man's mouth quirked. Not quite amusement. But his eyes were no longer like death.

He wants to be part of something, Cho realizes. Not the gang, who had left him, dropped him into this place without thought. But maybe something like this, where a man will cross the country to check on a fellow man. Glimpse of honour, responsibility.

They talk. Not for long. Just a quiet, serious man reaching out and turning a stupid kid back from a bad path.

Something sticks. He keeps his head down, avoids getting involved in anything. Remembers that Look. He never wants to feel like that again. Practices a variation of it in the small mirror to himself. It seems to work. People don't trouble him, and he finishes his term without incident.

He makes it through Basic. And on his first leave, goes home in uniform. His father opens the door, and looks at him. Cho can look back, chin up.

Short nod.

"Come. In."

It was enough.

Did his tour. Went back to college. Thought about Norfolk, but his father died in his final year, so he went to the CBI instead, nearer to his mother and sisters. Part of something. Responsible. -

Cho smiles to himself. Other people might get freaked out by Jane's scary eye-voodoo. But he'd like to see the man ever try it out on that gunny.

.

.

.

(a/n – yes, that _is_ who you think it is. Semper Fi!)


	36. Catch Me When I Fall

Catch Me When I Fall

.

.

"Well, of course I trust you, Lisbon."

He turns, tips back. No hesitation. Lisbon is strong for her size, her reactions whip-quick, but even she couldn't sustain the deadweight of a grown man. She ends up flat on her butt, with the breath knocked out of her, and Jane in her lap. That curly blond head tips back, his smile intriguingly inverted.

"See? I knew you'd catch me."

He's a little too assiduous in helping her to brush off her pants afterwards, and she hits him when he offers to rub it better.

She doesn't trust him. She doesn't trust him not to get himself killed. So she will always be there to catch him.

00000000000

He knows he should feel insulted to overhear himself described as 'Lisbon's maniac'. 'Maniac', he'll dispute, but 'Lisbon's'...he can live with that.

Since the first day they had worked together, he'd been aware of her. Difficult not to be, after she got up in his face and gave him hell. Not the first person to do so, but it hadn't been about ego for her. Physical attraction sparks between them. He's used to it, used to using it, another weapon in the arsenal. Never expected that he would be caught in his turn.

He teases her, torments her, tricks her. And trusts her.

Whenever he's in trouble, he calls for her. And she comes to save him.


	37. The Carnation and The Rose

.

.

The Carnation and the Rose

.

.

"Garner had two tickets for the theatre, but his wife's mother is sick, so...I'll pick you up at six, we can eat at that little chinese place round the corner afterwards."

"What?"

"Broaden your cultural horizons, Lisbon." He waggles the two tickets cheerfully. "Makes a change from empty celluloid violence."

"The theatre." This has 'wrong' written all over it.

"Don't make me go on my own." Plays his ace. "You made me sit through that demented thing with the robots in it last week."

Put like that, he has an unfortunately good point. She hadn't even wanted to see the movie that much, but he'd been sitting on his couch and looking particularly bleak. It wasn't like they hadn't been to the movies before, after all. Worried thought.

"It's not a musical, is it?"

Unfeigned horror.

"Euw. No." Grin. "Proper drama."

"Oh, alright." He'll only hang about in her office and nag at her until she gives in, anyway.

"Six, then. And wear something other than jeans for a change, woman."

Jane ducks back out of the office, catches the stress ball she's chucked at him, and lobs it back at her. There's a yelp, and he exits hastily, still grinning, and nearly walks into a man standing in the corridor. Not quite on Rigsby's scale, but a big, fit man in a smart jacket. Nice brown eyes, and quiet good looks.

Bob Veidt. A Nice Guy. Everything Lisbon deserves. Honest, steady, he won't hurt her or trick her.

"Hell. Guess I missed my second chance, then." Hands in pockets, rueful smile.

Jane should set him straight, deny it. Let Lisbon have a chance at happiness. He shouldn't let Veidt go off under the impression...but dammit, the man skipped out on dinner with her.

"Guess you did." he says.

Jane isn't good at dealing with second chances.

00000000000

She's spending way too much time choosing something to wear. Huffs irritably. It's only Jane, for heaven's sake. And it's only because he's persuaded her to go to the theatre. Jeans don't seem to fit the occasion. Chews her lip. If she wears a dress, it's going to look like she made too much of an effort. Like it is a date. Which it isn't.

Because a date is where two people assess each other as potential partners, thoughts of an intimate relationship. And she is not allowed to (will not) think of Jane in those terms.

(he has a key to your damn apartment, woman. who are you kidding?)

She's not sure why the idea of sitting in the theatre with him is so much more disturbing than sitting in the multiplex. Maybe because this seems more like something normal coup...people do. Though why it should be any stranger than having him hang out and watch tv, she's not sure. Not that they have done that recently. She sighs. Something has been a little off since...oh, hell.

He's sulking because she went out with another man? She can't even entertain that thought. Won't. He flirts like he breathes, and it doesn't mean anything. (refuses to remember that look she'd surprised in his eyes.) And she is too proud (too scared) to let him know how she feels about him, and why the hell is she _stil__l_ dithering over what to bloody wear?

Damn the man. Nearly gives her a heart attack when he gets up from her couch. She hadn't heard him let himself in.

Jane looks as he always does. She's never seen him out of his suit. In casual clothing, she corrects herself hastily, as mental images spring unbidden. Thinking about what is under that shirt is forbidden. Colleague. Co-worker. Professional boundaries.

(warm skin and hard muscles....stopthatrightnow)

She's wearing those fantastic heels of hers again. And a skirt. She's dressed up for him, though she looks slightly cross and self-conscious about it. He's absurdly gratified.

"You look lovely." Echo of before.

"Why do I let you talk me into things?"

"My irresistible charm."

"Translated to whining like a five year old if you don't get your own way."

"That, too." he admits. Looks entirely too pleased with himself. "Shall we?"

They can do this. She can be his friend. Can banish any wistful dreams of anything more. It's safer that way.

00000000000

One of the smaller, artier theatres. She looks quizzically at the poster on the billboard - 'The Atomic Shakespeare Company presents...' and turns on him, amused outrage.

"You are joking, aren't you?"

"It's a classic."

She bats at him, laughing. Typical of the man. Wonders if the tickets were even Garner's to begin with. (They were; Jane wasn't interested until he saw exactly which play they were for.)

"You don't get to run out on me now." Takes her elbow.

Grumbles at him, mock-pout.

"No popcorn?"

"If you're good, I'll get you an ice-cream in the interval."

Quite a mix of people going in. Mixed groups, not just couples. Not that they are a couple. In that sense. Very odd to be out in public like this. She can't imagine spending off-time with any of the other men she works with. And yet, she supposes this isn't so very strange for Jane.

"Make a change to be in the stalls, does it?"

"Yeah." Jane settles himself into his seat. Has to cast his mind back to remember the last time he was in an audience, not playing to one. He suspects he was bored out of his mind at the ballet, one of his wife's efforts to teach him a little culture. But - this is not an evening to think of those things. He is here with Lisbon, and she deserves his total attention. She's looking around her with free and frank interest.

"It's a long time since I was last here." A genuine smile. "This was a good idea."

Jane realizes that he'll sit through pretty much anything if Lisbon smiles at him like that. Even a musical.

They had been a little awkward with each other these last few weeks. He'd meant to stay away, to try and put some distance, and then she'd looked at him with worried eyes, asked him to the movies. And he'd been out of his seat immediately, grateful that she wasn't shutting him out, hating himself, because friendly concern isn't what he wants, and he can't have more.

He can be her friend. He can learn to do that. Can learn to curb his need. But he's not strong enough to let her go. He's always been selfish.

00000000000

It's a very funny version of the play. Lean, stripped down text, and the lead actors have a chemistry, finding humour behind the words, subverting the meaning with glances full of passion and fire. Petruchio swaggers across the stage, and Katherina turns her eyes up with such a familiar expression that Jane nearly chokes. Katherina's gritted teeth as she humours Petruchio bring a reminiscent smirk to Lisbon's mouth. Jane can feel her resolutely not looking at him, so he stares sidelong at her until she's quaking with suppressed giggles.

Laughing, they argue through the interval, oblivious to people having to step round them, tutting.

"Meh. We know how it ends. The male asserts his authority by means of subtle mental manipulation."

"Like that would ever happen." Biting back her smile. "He bullies her into submission. Now, where's my ice-cream?"

The couple move through the bickering and the venal bargaining around them, two strong characters, well-matched, engrossed in the joy of their verbal sparring, pacing in time, eyes upon each other. And suddenly, there is one small moment of hush, as Petruchio declares that _"she is my goods, my chattels, she is my house..."_ and there is nothing of mockery in the speech, a man declaring his love.

Katherina's last speech is a masterpiece of wicked sarcasm. And when she puts her hand beneath her husband's foot, she tips him back off his stool, and he lands at her feet. They laugh together. It's she who puts her hand out to him, yanks him from the stage as he tries to have the last word, and the curtains close. Jane isn't watching the actors take their bows; he's watching Lisbon laugh as she applauds.

Good-humoured buzz of a satisfied audience surrounds them. They don't want to break the mood, stop for a drink in the little outside bar, where the drinkers mingle on the steps. And a very pretty and elegantly dressed woman, olive skin, corkscrew dark curls upswept, breaks from a little group and comes towards them.

"Teresa, hi."

They hug. Jane places the face, understands Lisbon's little grin as she beckons him forward.

"This is Patrick. We work together."

Dark eyes sweep him up and down, and she offers a hand.

"Carmen Nivarro. Have we met?"

Jane smiles, wide and wicked.

"Briefly. I, er, crashed a party..."

Carmen yelps, hand over her mouth, composure gone.

"ohshit. Ohmygod. That was you." Horror and amusement. "Oh, hell, I'm sorry. Tez," slaps her friend. "You should have said."

Lisbon waits for Jane to turn on the charm, with just a flash of disquiet. Carmen is taller, prettier, so much more girly than she is...mentally slaps herself. It isn't a competition.

"I'm Teresa's guilty secret." says the evil bastard, cheerfully. "White wine, isn't it, sweetheart?"

Slides away before she can hit him. Carmen immediately rounds on Lisbon, eyes round.

"Babe, he's gorgeous." Grins horribly. "So, _does_ he strip well?"

"I wouldn't know." Lisbon says, not entirely honestly. "We do just work together."

Carmen sighs, looking after him.

"But you've already got him toe-tagged for later, huh?"

Lisbon would like to think it's a case of protecting Jane's privacy, not revealing his past, that makes her shrug, not quite nod and smile. (she knows it isn't. crap) Carmen sighs again, and laughs.

"Oh, I so hope you told the poor man how out of character that was for me."

"Yeah, right." Snigger. "Because you would never randomly make out with, say, some guy at a gig or anything..."

"One time. One time. And you, Miss Prim, were attempting to jump the bass player. Actually, you did jump the bass player."

"Shhh."

Jane, having annoyed half a dozen already waiting patrons by materialising at the bar and instantly drawing the attention of two servers, carries the drinks back. He can see the two women giggling. Lisbon, off-duty and off limits, and so very lovely. She shouldn't ever worry about him looking at another woman. He shouldn't even be looking at her.

He doesn't know why he tortures himself like this. He can't, shouldn't (wants to). Pretending to himself that she could look at him and see more than damage and a cute set of abs, unwilling to find out if she does. Freely admits that he's a confused, guilty mess. Knows how lucky he is that she puts up with him on any terms at all.

Carmen makes a few polite comments, then goes back to her friends, gives Jane a rather wistful smile as she goes. God, Teresa is lucky. Not just the fact that the man is sex personified. It's the way he looks at her, all sweet and protective and hopeful. Laughs to herself; hard-bitten attorney by day, and hopeless romantic by night.

"You were talking about me." Jane says, gleeful.

"What? No." She can't ever lie to him. He grins, leans forward, eyes wicked. She tries to stare him out.

"You let her..."

There's a crash, a shout, sound of breaking glass.

A man dodging through the crowd on the steps, two uniforms in pursuit. Heads turning, noises of alarm and outrage as people are shoved, trip into each other to get out of the way, or to gawk.

And a small, pretty woman kicks off her heels, and barrels into the fray. Man is not expecting the impact. Brutal elegance in the takedown, feet and elbows, and the man lies prone, his captor kneeling astride his back, and trying to hold both thick wrists.

Some of the bystanders applaud.

"Cuffs." She barks at the arriving police officer, who obeys the tone before his brain catches up.

"Lady, what the hell..." Winded and startled.

Jane arrives, holding her purse and discarded heels, beams proudly.

"She's off-duty." he explains.

"What is she when she's on duty? Xena?" The man's eyes are still a bit wide.

Lisbon gets up off her captive, leaves him groaning into the ground. She's taken down bigger and tougher guys than that. Though she's normally better dressed for it.

"Dammit." She surveys her torn nylons, the ruins of her shirt. One sleeve and half the buttons trashed. Jane stops grinning abruptly.

"He hurt you." Livid scratch across her shoulder.

This time it is his hand that touches her bare skin. Sting of the scrape lost beneath the tingling fire of his fingertips. And she becomes suddenly conscious, as she has not been before, of how much of her is on display. She does blush, then, and is furious with herself.

Jane is truly disgusted with himself. Lisbon looks like the heroine of some cheap exploitation flick, tiny in her bare feet, all smooth creamy skin, ripped clothes and tumbled hair, and he's appalled to find that it's a huge turn-on. He's not that sort of man, never has been. He wants to wrap her in his jacket, hustle her away from all eyes, including his own. He feels dirty, even more ashamed that he did when he followed her in 'Frisco.

She looks up. (his eyes, dark with hunger and guilt. her own eyes, wide with shock.)

She wonders why she is so surprised. She's used to Jane flirting, pretty much accepts it, even ignores it. But this is a very direct and different look. The thought that maybe he sees a living woman now, instead of the dead. Angry for him, at him, because he clings to the past and to her, and he can't have both. Angry at herself for thinking any of that, and a bone-deep guilt. So she keeps her voice calm with an effort,

"I'm fine, Jane. I'm just pissed about my shirt."

Face taut, he steps back and shrugs out of his jacket. She doesn't refuse, briskly buttoning it. Without her badge, she'll have to be twice as tough to be taken seriously, and having her cleavage out there won't help.

The officers aren't inclined to mock. In fact, Officer Lucca is more than impressed, and would ask for her number, if it weren't for the fact that she's wrapped in some guy's jacket, and he's standing there, 'possessive boyfriend' written all over him.

Jane sighs as he looks at her. Dwarfed by the police officers, and totally in charge despite her bare feet and disordered clothing. Lisbon, incapable of standing by when justice has to be served. He wouldn't want her any other way. He hovers, a little unsure. She doesn't need his protection, doesn't need him. But she takes his arm for balance as she slips her shoes back on, without stopping the flow of conversation, natural gesture. And so he stands there, holding her purse, obedient to the small hand on his forearm.

"We'll call by the CBI tomorrow for a full statement." Officer Horton says cheerfully. "Don't want to take up any more of your evening."

She's not going to fight it. She has no desire to hang about downtown in this outfit. She feels bruised, and shaken from more than the take-down. Jane, too, has a slightly strained look around his eyes, as she takes her purse back. She sighs.

"I think I'd just like to go home now."

"Yeah." His voice is quiet and a bit sad. That bleakness in his eyes again. Guilt strikes her.

"I'm sorry your quiet cultural evening got ruined. Next time, perhaps we should stick with the celluloid violence." Realizes what she has implied.

"Easier on the wardrobe." So does he. His eyes brighten, and he finds a smile that is nearly normal. "But, apart from that, Mrs Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?"

Her laughter up at him, his rueful grin back, as they walk out into the night. Perfectly in step with each other, his hand over the small of her back. So they aren't quite a couple the way the world thinks they are. She's his Lisbon, and nobody else's.

"Poor dope looked more shaken than she did." Horton says to his partner. Lucca grins.

"Hell, didja see her take this mook down? She's one scary little _pola_."

"Guess he likes 'em dangerous."

"Guess he does." Sighs, and shakes his head. "He's one lucky guy."

00000000000

….This time, she does not invite him in, (he doesn't expect her to) but she gives him a warm smile.

"Goodnight, Jane...Patrick." Wrinkles her nose. "I can't get used to that."

"A rose by any other name..." Spreads his arms.

"Go away." She goes to poke him, and winces. "Oh, your jacket."

"Keep it tonight." He really doesn't trust himself. "Goodnight...Teresa."

A small, charged moment. If he were any other man, at the end of a date, she would kiss him on the cheek. But he's not and this wasn't, and she can't. Damn him.

Brief, panicked glance of cool lips against her cheekbone, and he's gone.


	38. Red Dog

-Red Dog is a version of poker. Just some random angsty introspection. Again.-

.

.

Red Dog

.

.

Some nights, when Jane can't sleep, he wanders round the hotel grounds. They are used to him, now, the night staff. They don't quite know what to make of him, this guest in the smart suit, with the sad eyes and the ready smile. But he remembers their names, and his Spanish is fluent, if oddly accented. It may be that Lupe, who devours celebrity magazines in her very rare off hours, knows his face, but she doesn't say.

Round the back of the buildings, past the facade and the side entrance to the kitchens. This isn't the rich, public part of the hotel. All the worn out and broken things rest here, everything a little dusty and tired.

Out there, you have – the audience, the guests, the marks. And then you have - the performers, the front of house, the show. But beyond that...The guests will never set eyes on some of these people. Unless they happen to have a blocked sink, the urge for a late night sandwich. Very few of them will look twice. Merv, Chavez, Irina, Freddo...he grew up around folk like this.

...Tullai, who had only been a few years older than him, watching his father with wide adoring eyes. She had truly believed, daughter of a snake-handling pastor from some place in the Appalachians, turned her back on her family to embrace the new ministry. It was Tullai who first taught him to cook...

...Old Harry, who ran the jenny on the midway, bright-eyed goblin of a man with a hoarse laugh, and a good many tattoos up his once-brawny arms, one of which was a little string of numbers...

... He'd been in a bus station, some place between Lafayette and Pasadena, and a guy had really not wanted to take 'no, thank you' as an answer. Then someone had loomed out of the night, had hit the man, several times, with technical precision, and had then given the shaken young Patrick hot black coffee and a serious talking to about safer places to sleep. Rober', thick Montreal accent further blurred by the fire which had taken half his face, hiding in the shadows, a sweet, shy man...

...Rosita, rubbing weary feet and still finding a smile for the young men and their outrageous flattery, letting them hang out in the employee's lounge. She'd left a son, back with her mother, scrubs toilets and sends money back so maybe he won't ever have to...

...Zorya, all tired eyes and cheekbones, pouring another cup from the samovar which she claims came from the palace in St. Petersburg. Lives in a world full of wonderful lies, not least of which is how the daughter of Russian aristocrats could come to be running a tatty teahouse off Venice Beach, dealing out a pack of greasy tarot cards...

Quiet, hard-faced men and women who don't step out into the limelight, just keep quietly making sure the show runs smoothly. These are the people who clean your rooms, who empty your trash, who cook the meals and wash the plates, or measure out their lives in cups of coffee in lonely diners besides the roads they never get to take.

One night, he'd found a handful of them playing cards. And Chavez had pushed a stool out with his foot, silent invite. These guys aren't whales. They aren't even minnows. Working stiffs, kicking back with a beer, and playing for matches.

He's not a gambler, not in the same way that his father was. Poker teaches you to read people, and it's a useful skill when you are short of funds, but he plays any game merely for the sake of winning it, not because of the money. After the first time, they don't let him deal, but there is laughter, and Merv punches him in the shoulder. Which is a great deal friendlier that the big maintenance guy punching him in the face, and almost a sign of approval.

So some nights, he takes himself down to the scruffy little courtyard, a man with tired eyes and a wicked grin, still a little out of place in his shirt sleeves and scuffed shoes. But then, he doesn't fit anywhere, really, now, has no place to be, but maybe here, propped on a busted chair, with the people who watch the show, but don't take part. The ones who know what is behind the glitter.

00000000000

"He thinkin' about his chica again, he smiling."

"So, you tell us about this girl." Irina lights another cigarette from the smouldering end of the one she drops, fans the smoke away. "She is beautiful?"

"Oh, yes." And he knows he's got a silly grin on his face.

But Lisbon _is_ beautiful. There's no reason to think twice about that. Lovely even when she's mad at him, which is rather too often. Knows that he provokes her sometimes just to see that flush of temper, spark in her eyes. It's preferable to the look of disappointment, the worry, the pity.

"You sit here, play cards with us, when you have a woman like that?"

Because he doesn't have a woman like that. He has a beautiful co-worker, who makes it very clear that she's his boss.

So he shrugs, gives a twisted smile. Chavez snorts.

"Why she even put up with a crazy no-good brujo like you?"

"I have no idea." He says, honestly.

"It's the hair." Freddo runs his fingers over his own immaculate black waves. "The ladies love good hair."

Rude laughter, and even Merv grins. Freddo isn't bothered about women.

But they get to teasing Freddo about this hard-bodied dancer he's been chasing, and then the night manager Mr Franklin calls down to tell Merv that room 413 has blocked the toilet _again_, and the conversation drifts away. Jane sighs gently, his eyes only half on his cards.

He's afraid. He's afraid that what she feels for him is merely pity and friendly concern, the compassion she has for anyone in trouble. Oh, she finds him attractive, but that is something he has always used, his looks are part of his arsenal of charm, not him, as he is. And he isn't sure she could even like the real him. He's not sure he likes the real him. Arrogant, brash, conceited, deceitful, egotistical...he can run through most of the alphabet and back on his flaws.

He's nearly forty years old, and he has no real home, no family and a dreadful past, on so many levels. The last people who loved him, he failed so badly that he's terrified, and he's filled the hollow inside him with rage, to bury the grief. And guilt crushes the tiny part of him that longs to be held, to be touched. To be with her. Because he doesn't deserve her. He'll only make a mess of it.

Sometimes, you just have to play the hand you get dealt. And tonight, that feels like a busted flush.


	39. The Trick Is To Keep Breathing

-some of the mess from the other side. Listening to Garbage 'Version 2.0'-

.

.

The Trick Is To Keep Breathing

.

.

One tiny panicked peck on the cheek. A glimpse of eyes gone dark and startled. Light touch of fingers against her collarbone. It isn't much. But it's quite enough.

She's scared. Scared of what she feels for him. Scared of what he might do with those feelings when he discovers them. And she's scared of that hunger in his face and eyes, because she wants to be more to him than just a body in his bed.

Oh, of course he's gorgeous. And if she had met him anywhere else but at work, she could have been tempted long before, to find out if that flirting was anything more than a reflex.

But -if she had not met him at work...where else would she have met him? He doesn't do anything else. Even his attendance at the rec came out of that ridiculous MFR ruling. Over the nearly two years she has worked with him, she has seen him gradually coming back to something that almost resembles life. Seen him start to engage with the team, with her, as more than an audience.

And there is the reason that he works with them. He doesn't have a normal life. He never will. Some things are too badly broken; you can put them back together, but the cracks will always show.

They match wills too often; she knows how devious, how strong he is, and that he is surprised by her strength in return. But she can't let him win. It is an issue of control, but not for pride's sake. He's reckless, because he does not have anything to anchor him. Not suicidal - His death wish encompasses another's death. But damaged. Lacks boundaries, not just professional, but elementary social behaviour. As if it no longer matters to him.

She can't deny that his admission of a breakdown, his chilling recital of vengeance, had shaken her, altered the way she looked at him. He'd known it, too. But she had not tried to hide her reaction, or pretended that nothing was wrong. He had let a little of his real self out, and then she had had to turn away, to run away, back to her job. Run away from the implicit challenge. - This is me, at my worst. What are you going to do about it?

What was she going to do?

Clinging to her badge, shield in more than one sense. If she tells herself, convinces herself, that it's all about the job, then she won't waver. Because her job is not something she takes lightly. Being involved with someone she works with - Been there, done that. Carries the scars.

Some days, she wishes he had never come to the CBI, that he did not work with her. That she had never met him. Because on those days, it is the hardest thing in the world not to put her arms round him, to tell him that she will try and make it better for him. That he doesn't need to be lonely, or to show off, or to try and make her mad at him. She sees him for what he is, and it doesn't matter.

But she doesn't know if he sees her. Not just as a woman, but as the woman she is. She doesn't do casual. Not just the remnants of a Catholic upbringing. Respect for herself, and hard won experience. If she gets involved, it's always serious. And so she will not risk telling him how she feels. Will not risk pain, rejection, humiliation. Not at his hands.

She has to face it. She is falling in love with him. And falling is exactly how it feels. Out of control. A mad, marvellous spiral of thought and emotion, that terrifies her. Because she has always been the one in control, always. The only time she had ever let her heart rule her head, she had nearly wrecked her life. She cannot, will not risk that again.

The thing she is most scared of? That he will look at her with those sad eyes and tell her 'no'. That he is too tied to his past, his ghosts, to ever leave them. That she could hand her heart over, and have it returned to her even more broken than he is.


	40. Something Like a Monument

-Just me being strange. Unlike some authors, I have no worries about being thought weird :) Title is from some King Crimson lyrics, 'cos they are definitely digging each other's bones! -

.

.

Something Like A Monument

.

.

"I think that book had it right. Some men _are_ from Mars." Van Pelt says wearily. Cho snorts.

"Hell, Jane is probably from Gallifrey."

"You are _such_ a geek." She considers, give a sudden snigger. "Mind you...he's from the Midwest. Somewhere in Kansas, maybe?"

Cho's mouth curls in startled appreciation. Rigsby gets it, too, starts to grin.

"Oh, yeah, because..." They all look over to where a small figure is standing, hands on hips.

("Jane! Don't climb on the dinosaur!")

The suited figure swings down from his precarious perch, and submits to being hauled back off the dais, standing with feigned meekness as she scolds.

"...Lisbon is _definitely_ his kryptonite."

00000000000

Never a dull moment in the CBI. They have found bodies in all sorts of places, but this has to be a first. The body of security guard Pedro Lopez lies under the open jaws of the Rex like a dropped chew-toy.

"Shallow knife-wound in his shoulder, but that doesn't seem to be what killed him."

"He fell. From...there."

Jane. Turning around in the middle of the atrium, the sunlight through the dome a perfect spotlight. Typical of the man. Points to the upper level, the gallery around the hall.

"The Roxton Room is through that arch."

Cho checks the museum map, even though it isn't a question. Jane is already strolling towards the stairs. Lisbon goes after him. It isn't a case of following, he automatically checks his pace to her shorter stride, and they go up the staircase like a pair of questing hounds.

"I never knew this place existed." Rigsby says.

"Some English eccentric." Van Pelt looks vaguely revolted. "There's a whole room up there dedicated to Big Game. He claims to have shot everything in the collection himself."

Cho shakes his head.

"I really don't get it. This isn't even paying money to look at _live_ animals."

00000000000

There are too many eyes watching her. The room is one big gallery of death. Not just heads, but whole animals, epitome of the taxidermist's art. She stays by the archway.

"Why would someone break into _this_ museum? There's no jewellery or rare artefacts here."

Jane, prowling in amongst the stuffed beasts.

"Black market medicine. Of the traditional kind." He waves his arms. "Lions and tigers and bears, oh my..."

"Can this day get any weirder?...don't answer that." She adds, hastily. This is Jane; it almost certainly could. "Someone broke in here to steal bits of dead animals?"

"You said yourself, nothing else here. And this isn't a well-known place." Stops in front of a Kodiak. "Oh. Hmm. Lisbon, does this remind you of anyone?"

"What?"

"I mean..." His wicked smile. "Give it a currant bun. Or maybe some carrot sticks..."

She bites her lip. So very difficult to be cross with him when he's in one of his bouncy moods, and not actively annoying anyone.

Jane steps back out to the gallery rail, and turns. The rail is across the small of his back. Leans. Lisbon puts her hands on his chest, shoves lightly. It would take a bit of force to take him over, but not much.

"Lopez wasn't a small guy. At least your height, and broader."

"A younger, stronger man. And he'll be connected to our dead guard. Probably related."

"Obscure private museum." She's beginning to know how his mind works, now. "Discovery and a struggle?"

"Collusion. No forced entry. And the knife was brought as a work-tool, not a weapon. Accident."

They both look over the rail. The body is almost directly below them, the team peering up, perhaps wondering if their errant consultant is about to land down there, too.

"I see it. Through the ribs, there."

"Someone could have thrown it there." Jane calculates. "You'd need a good aim, but it isn't impossible."

"Not everyone has your mad skills."

"True. So...dropped over the rail in a panic."

00000000000

Underneath the skeleton again, they both look up, tilt their heads at an angle. Once you know where to look, the tip of the blade can just be seen. They look at each other. Then Jane links his hands into a step.

This is a very bad idea. With great trepidation, she puts her hands on his shoulders.

It would have been a better idea to call Rigsby over, but neither of them think of that. Rigsby shuts his mouth; he doesn't want either of them mad at him. He'd be quite uncomfortable having his Boss climb up him like that, anyway, even without Jane then glaring at him.

"I'm sure that constitutes inappropriate touching." Van Pelt mutters.

Cho simply shrugs.

Much closer to Lisbon than he ever thought he would be. Narrowly avoids a knee in the face. Not necessarily in a good way, though. He's also rather pleased that he's able to lift her without them both going down in a heap. Whilst the thought of being pinned down by Lisbon has a certain spice, he's seen her tackle perps in the field. She plays hard.

She very determinedly does not think about this, one hand on Jane's shoulder, reaching up to the gleam of metal above her. Stretches that bit further, moves her hand to the top of his head. Shame about the gloves, she can't appreciate the curls through latex...

"Ow. Mind my neck, woman."

"I hate being short." She grumbles.

"Good thing you're pocket-sized." he says. "I doubt I could lift Van Pelt."

She growls, not completely displeased. Hooks her fingers over the object, and yelps in triumph. Slithers down him rather inelegantly. (Jane shuts his eyes, bites his cheek.)

"Cho! Evidence bag!"

Lisbon, flushed in the face, standing in front of Jane, his hands on her waist, one of her hands on his shoulder, and the other one brandishing a knife.

Okay, fairly normal, then.

Lisbon puts the knife in the bag, and then remembers to take her hand off Jane and step back.

Jane rather reluctantly lets go of her waist, and flexes his shoulders. Not a totally unpleasant experience, to have Lisbon scale him like he was some kind of jungle gym. He might have wished that the first time she was in his arms might not have had a knife involved, of course. Straightens his jacket with a sigh.

"We _have_ to come back here." Grins at her. "I'm sure your older nephews would love it."

Lisbon has a sudden vision of trying to control Jane and two small boys hurtling round the place. The fact that Jane seems to have inserted himself into the picture is probably the most horrifying thing. She blinks.

"I don't think I want to be rescuing a four-year-old from the allosaurus. Or vice versa."

"It's educational." He reproves her. "All small boys like dinosaurs."

"Did you?" An idle question, and a personal one, she realizes. But Jane smiles.

"First bit of any museum."

She remembers that expression on his face,well, just before that guy dropped out of the sky in the desert. 'Giant sharks'...He's still a small boy who likes dinosaurs. It's rather endearing.

00000000000

Pedro Lopez has a cousin, who has a son. And the son already has form, a couple of charges for possession. He's a small-time loser, and his luck doesn't get any better. Two days later, he attempts to fence a couple of embalmed tiger penises to a Traditional Medicine Practitioner at the back of the Chinatown Mall. Doctor Sung isn't pleased. The police arrive to find the man cowering in the back of the shop with a tiny, furious Chinese grandmother alternately ranting at him in Mandarin and flourishing a Magnum .44.

It turned out that the 'victim' wasn't quite a total accident. He'd agreed to let the young man in, and had then had a disagreement over splitting the proceeds. Greed and panic and dumb bad luck. Remembering the size of the man, and looking at the bruise across the young man's mouth, there may even be a plea for self-defence in there, somewhere. However, that was what lawyers were for. Just now, Lisbon wants a quiet sit down, and maybe a cup of tea.

She knows that she locks her office. Why she bothers, she doesn't know. Perched on her desk, two brightly coloured plastic figures.

Lisbon stifles a grin. Pulls her face straight, and marches out to find the culprit.

"Jane, why are there dinosaurs on my desk?"

"They're guarding your paperwork. I tried to explain how territorial you were, but the Rex wasn't listening..."

He's a lunatic. She gives up, shaking her head, returns to her desk.

She tips the bigger dino towards the smaller spiky one.

"Grr. Argh." She murmurs softly.

So next time her nephews are in town, she might well take them to the museum. And it would serve him right if she did rope him in as a chaperone.


	41. Breakfast Club

-because the late, great John Hughes' early work informed my teenage years. Hell, I'm old...-

.

.

Breakfast Club

.

.

Afterwards, he blames the pay-per-view. Insomnia, a small town motel, and a moment of startled nostalgia. He's tired enough to be drinking coffee for breakfast, and maybe this also contributes to his random thoughts...

"So, who were you in High School?"

"Huh?"

Jane stretches his arms along the back of the seat.

"Well - the five of us here. At breakfast."

Lisbon gives a little crack of laughter.

"Van Pelt's probably too young to remember that movie."

"I know it." Van Pelt grins suddenly. "Coach's kid. I was the athlete."

She could have been the princess. Pretty, popular, could have been on the cheer-leading squad. If she wasn't already captain of half the teams.

"I'm the only one with a record." Cho reaches over for the coffee pot. "Guess I get to be the criminal."

Cho's parents had been very keen on him getting good grades, a lot of fights about him letting them down. So much pressure to conform. It had to have an outlet somewhere.

"I guess Rigsby was an athlete, too?"

Rigsby, mouthful of bacon, can't defend himself, rolls his eyes nervously.

"Brain." Jane says. "President of the chess club."

Rigsby's father would have been happier to see him win a few more of the fights he got into, kick back a little more.

"Well, you are definitely a basket-case." Lisbon tells him.

He grins, unabashed. She reaches up and musses him.

"Actually, with your hair, maybe you'd have been the princess."

"Leave off, woman..." Laughing. "So, who are you, then? Athlete, with all that scary tackling you do?"

Lisbon, hastily banishing the unbidden thought of rolling on a wrestling mat with him, finds a naughty grin.

"I did have a very, very unsuitable boyfriend with a motorbike..."

Jane now has a picture of Lisbon the biker chick in his head. That will not help his concentration today.

Rigsby's mind has defaulted back to the memory of Grace in her biking leathers. He couldn't have even dreamt of talking to a girl like her when he started High School. She wouldn't have hung out with a chess nerd. Of course, by the time Prom came round, he had cheerleaders hung off him like crappy letterman jackets...

"High School sucked." he says, his longer reach winning out as he makes a grab for the last pancake. "Life didn't get good until college."

"I never went to college." Jane says, cheerfully.

"Why? You're a smart guy." Rigsby blurts, then looks horrified. "Sorry."

But Jane just grins at Lisbon.

"I was, what did you call me, a surf-bum?" The memory of that conversation sparks between them.

"Seriously?" Cho grins, breaks the tension. "Man, I cannot imagine you doing that."

Lisbon can. Keeps very quiet, and buries her nose in her coffee cup.

Jane causes deep horror with his description of the gruesome beach shack, and the conversation drifts to dreadful places that they have all lived in, dorms and rentals and barracks. She thinks she's got away with it, until the time comes to leave.

"So," says a voice, rather too close to her ear. "You were the princess, huh?"

Actually, Lisbon thinks, she was more the basket case at school. Trying to keep everything together, and not let anyone know how bad things were getting at home.

She looks up at him.

Jane was definitely the bad boy. Hiding his weird home-life behind a mask of spiky charm. Always the new guy, having to find himself somewhere to fit.

"I was very popular in High School." Tweaks his earlobe. "But I don't think any of my earrings would suit you."

She slides out of the booth before he can frame a response, and he follows after, grinning.

Actually, he thinks, Lisbon would probably put a ring through his nose if she thought she could get away with it.

Mind you, if he could persuade her to wear those leather jeans she mentioned, he'd probably let her.


End file.
